Salvation
by loobeyloo
Summary: This new adventure finds out hero, Stringfellow Hawke following a possible lead to the whereabouts of his brother St John, but he soon discovers that not even he can battle against illness and the elements and crashes near to a remote mountain community
1. Chapter 1

SALVATION, is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF.

Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters.

This story is purely a figment of my imagination, and apart from the usual ensemble of characters, borrowed for the occasion from Mr Bellisario and company, any and all resemblance to any real person or place is purely coincidental, accidental and downright bad luck on my part!

Chapter One

Santini Air Hangar, Van Nuys Airport, Los Angeles, California

Spring 1984.

The teeth clenching screech of tyres from just outside the Santini Air hangar immediately caught the attention of the two men working on separate helicopters.

One, a slightly older and heavier set man was working on an engine suspended on a block and tackle type of set up, coveralls smeared in fresh grease and oil, smudges of the stuff clinging to his cheek and brow where he had been scratching his head in puzzlement trying to find out what was wrong with the engine, the other, younger man, slight and trim, yet muscular, was lying on the ground underneath a Bell Jet Ranger and he slid out from under the belly of the chopper and looked up at the older man.

"Expecting someone?" Stringfellow Hawke asked in a low, deep voice.

"No …. Gotta be for you. I don't know anyone who drives like that!" Dominic Santini quipped, nudging his baseball cap further back on the top of his head, frowning and scratching his brow.

Both men glanced toward the open hangar door as they heard the slam of a car door and a few moments later a familiar figure appeared.

"Oh terrific …." Dominic Santini let out a low sigh as he recognised the man, clad in faded, tattered jeans, grubby sneakers, a black T-shirt and shades. "I shoulda known …."

"Hi Mr Santini ….. Hey Hawke …. How's it hanging?" The new arrival greeted the younger man with a big cheesy grin, hand extended out to him in a friendly greeting as he sauntered across the hangar.

"Hey Jimmy …." Hawke grinned back, accepting the other man's handshake then pulling him to him in a quick, rough bear hug. "Long time no see."

It warmed Dominic Santini's heart to see the expression on his young friend's face. Stringfellow Hawke was a serious and often solemn young man, but when he smiled, it lit up the room around him. In Santini's opinion, Hawke didn't smile nearly enough.

It was also good to see Jimmy Roscoe, former pilot and veteran of Vietnam. He and Hawke had flown together many times over there and had shared many experiences that Dominic Santini could not even begin to imagine.

It had been a while since Jimmy had turned up at the hangar, but Santini knew that it signalled his need to talk ….

And drink ….

And that meant that he had come looking for his favourite old drinking buddy.

Hawke wasn't much of a drinker, but whenever he spent an evening with Jimmy Roscoe, he always came back a little the worse for wear.

The pair hadn't been on a bender for a long time, so Dominic didn't think it would do either of them much harm to let their hair down a little.

String was a sensible guy. He wouldn't do anything to jeopardise his pilots licence, it was too precious to him.

Especially now ….

As for Jimmy, the fact that when he turned up out of the blue like this it usually meant that he was temporarily out of work, or 'between jobs' as he so quaintly put it, it didn't really matter how drunk he got or how bad he felt the next morning.

"You doing anything tonight, String?" Jimmy asked, digging his hands into the pockets of his jeans now and watched as Hawke and Santini exchanged knowing glances.

"Go on, get outta here …." Santini grinned. "And sink a couple for me while you're at it," he chuckled.

"You could always come with us …." Hawke suggested then noticed the wary look Jimmy Roscoe was giving him. Dominic noticed it too and waved his hand at Hawke with a grin.

"I'll have to take a rain check this time …. Stuff to do around here …. But thanks for the offer …."

"Maybe I should stay …." Hawke offered.

"Nah …. You go and have a nice evening out with your buddy. Choppers will still be here tomorrow …."

"If you're sure …." Santini nodded. "Okay then …. I'll just be a minute …. Get out of this …." He indicated to the oil and grease stained beige coverall that he was wearing. "And wash up …."

"Okay …." Jimmy Roscoe looked relieved and plonked himself down in a chair beside Dominic Santini's workstation as Hawke sauntered across the hangar toward the office and the small washroom out back where his clean clothes were neatly folded in his locker.

Dominic Santini tried to engage Jimmy in conversation while String was gone, but he merely shrugged in answer to the older man's query about his work situation and family, and so Dominic quickly gave up and returned his attention to the engine suspended before him, frowning and scratching his head once more.

Stringfellow Hawke returned a little while later, clad in jeans and a shirt with a sweater over it and his battered old brown flying jacket, and slipping on his shades he followed Jimmy Roscoe out of the hangar, waving back at Dominic before disappearing outside.

Sitting in a dimly lit bar nursing a beer he did not really want, Stringfellow Hawke watched Jimmy Roscoe take three large gulps from his own mug of ice cold beer and then followed it with a bourbon chaser.

Roscoe always had had a greater capacity for alcohol than Hawke, and Hawke had learned pretty early on that he had no tolerance for alcohol anyway.

As a general rule of thumb he didn't touch spirits. He could tolerate a glass or two of wine or a couple of beers but that was his limit. No bad thing either for a working pilot who treasured his ticket. He hadn't actually been the worse for drink since he turned eighteen, when he had got blind stinking drunk with his older brother, St John, to celebrate his unofficial coming of age. The younger Hawke brother had felt so wretched the next day, he had made a vow to himself that he would never feel that way again.

And he never had.

Occasionally, when he knew that it was what Dominic Santini expected, he had made a show of feeling a little the worse for wear, keeping his shades on and feigning a headache, especially after one of his escapades with Jimmy, but the truth was, he really didn't care for alcohol and avoided it whenever he could, especially now he could be called upon to fly The Lady at any time.

"Hey man, I needed that …." Roscoe said, letting out a loud belch and grinning at his old friend.

"How ya been, Jimmy?" Hawke asked with genuine interest.

"Okay …. Not brilliant, but hanging in there. You?"

"So, so," Hawke sighed softly. "You working?" It was a dumb question, but Hawke wasn't big on conversation and didn't know what else to say. Usually Jimmy was the one who did all the talking.

"You're kidding, right?" Jimmy laughed harshly. "Who would want to hire a screw up like me?"

"Then quit being a screw up, Jimmy …." Hawke sighed. "I know you don't want to fly anymore, but you were always one helluva mechanic. Somebody could use you."

"Don't sweat it Hawke …. That's not what I came to see you about." Roscoe pushed his half empty beer mug away from him. "You still looking for information on your brother?"

This made Stringfellow Hawke sit up and take notice.

"St John …."

"Yeah …. You still looking for him?"

"Could be," Hawke confirmed warily.

"He is still MIA, right?" Roscoe probed.

"You know something?" Hawke asked, trying to sound casual despite the adrenalin suddenly pumping through his veins.

"Nothing specific buddy …." Roscoe said by way of an apology. "But I got friends, in the VA Hospital, I visit from time to time, and the last time I dropped by, your name was mentioned."

"I'm flattered …."

Hawke didn't need reminding that he hadn't been out to visit some of his old comrades for a while.

"Don't be, it wasn't all complimentary," Roscoe chuckled and Hawke forced a grin, silently willing the other man to get to the point about St John. "Do you remember that time …."

"What about St John, Jimmy?" Hawke said softly, wanting to halt Roscoe before he wandered off too far down memory lane.

"Oh yeah …. Well the guys were sitting around, shooting the breeze like they usually do …." Hawke nodded.

He knew how these visits went, had done more than his fair share over the years.

"Then they got to talking about a new intake of guys, MIA's fished out of Laos a month or so back, and one of the guys, Joel Ashman …. You remember Ole' Ace Ashman …. " Roscoe grinned and Hawke nodded.

Indeed he did remember Ashman from Nam, and his own occasional visits to the VA Hospital.

Captain Joel Ashman had been a good, reliable pilot, trustworthy and honest, someone you could trust to cover your six in a fight. He had been shot down some time in '71 just after Hawke had finished his second tour and was sent back to the States for a little R & R. Ashman's mangled chopper had been trapped in enemy territory under constant sniper fire for three days before they fished him out of the twisted wreckage, barely alive, bleeding heavily, racked with fever and paralysed from the waist down.

"Well Joel swears he recognised St John …. except this guy didn't even know what day of the week it was when Joel went to say hi, no memory, but Joel swears it was him alright. Same height, thinner now of course, had a beard on him too, great bushy thing it was, made him look like one of those hilly billies mad on moonshine …. Didn't know left from right or up from down, what time of day it was, much less him name, poor bastard …." Hawke could feel a knot of tension tightening in his gut.

St John, back in the US ….

If that was the case, surely Archangel would know ….

Surely Archangel would have come to tell him ….

Then again ….

Maybe it wasn't in Archangel's best interest to tell him ….

Maybe it didn't suit the man in white's agenda ….

Jimmy took another half hearted slurp of his beer before continuing. "No ID, no dog tags, no way to know who the hell he was …. Just a big hole where his memory used to be …. Those little weasels sure did work him over good and proper …." Jimmy's voice suddenly trailed away as he realised what he was saying.

"Is this man still at the VA Hospital, Jimmy?"

"Nah …. Not much they could do for the poor sucker …." Jimmy grimaced again, by way of an apology, and Hawke nodded in understanding.

Tact and diplomacy had never been Roscoe's strongest attributes, and Hawke didn't want to get hung up on sentiment right now. He just wanted facts that he could verify or dismiss.

"Guys said that the doctors made sure that he was physically Okay. Got him cleaned up, got him cleared by the top head shrinker and after three square meals a day for a couple of week or so, I guess they figured he was strong enough, so they released him."

"When?"

"Couple of days ago," Roscoe shrugged non commitally.

"Any idea where he went?" Hawke pressed, not wanting Roscoe to see the anger and disappointment he suddenly felt, that his friend hadn't brought this information to him sooner.

Roscoe merely shrugged again.

"You got a name for me?" Hawke asked with as much patience as he could muster. "He has to have had a name, Jimmy. Couldn't cut him loose without a name …."

"Oh c'mon Hawke, you know how it is with some of those guys …. They can remember every detail of every mission they ever went on in 'Nam but ask them what they had for breakfast yesterday and they can't answer …."

"Yeah, I know, Jimmy …." Hawke let out a soft sigh. "But they had to have called him something. For hospital records."

"John …. John Doe, I guess," again Roscoe shrugged.

Hawke nodded sagely.

Not very imaginative or original for that matter, but it was as good as any name ….

And it gave him a place to start.

"I'm sorry I don't know more. "

"Its okay, Jimmy," Hawke assured.

"The guys kinda got sidetracked, and I should have paid more attention. I thought I was helping …." Roscoe stared morosely into his beer mug, fingers strumming nervously against the table top.

"You are," Hawke laid a gentle hand atop the strumming fingers and stilled them. "You did good, Jimmy."

"Hawke …. If it turns out this guy …. If he is your brother …. I'm sorry, man …." Roscoe's voice trailed away then, and he dropped his gaze, no longer able to face looking at his old comrade.

Hawke hated the hint of sympathy in Roscoe's voice and the pained expression on his face and surmised that the gossip Roscoe had been exposed to at the VA Hospital had not painted a very good picture ….

Had most likely indicated that the man who might or might not be St John Hawke had not faired well and he sensed that Jimmy was trying to get his friend to understand that he should be prepared for the worst.

Hawke knew that it would not be easy.

After more than fifteen years as a prisoner in a VC POW camp, it would take a really strong personality to be able to settle back into civilian life ….

And freedom.

After fifteen years as a prisoner of war, Hawke was also aware that a man's physical condition and state of mind might not be at their best.

No matter what ….

If this man really was St John, he would do whatever it took to bring him home, and take care of him. He would lavish all the care and attention and love on his brother that he needed, and be proud to do it.

God knows he still had his own hang ups over Vietnam ….

The nightmares still tormented him….

From time to time ….

So he could relate in a small way to how St John might feel.

But even so, having him home with failing health and a fragile mental state was much better than the limbo of not knowing his brother's fate.

Or worse, having Archangel come to him and tell him that St John was dead and his body was being shipped home in a casket.

"It's okay, Jimmy, I understand. You want another beer?"

"Nah, somehow my heart's just not in it today," Roscoe grinned. "Besides, I got a date …." The grin grew wider and Hawke found himself smiling back. "Crazy broad, must be, 'cos she seems to like me. Thinks she can rehabilitate me …. Still, we're having fun …." The grin grew conspiratorial now and Hawke chuckled.

"You dirty dog …" He drawled.

"Don't knock it, hot shot. You should give it a try. If _**I **_can find someone willing to take me on, a law abiding, card carrying, fully paid up man of the 80's, a caring, sharing new age kinda guy like _**you**_ should have no problems finding someone to fool around with."

"Ya think?" Hawke chuckled again.

"A guy like you, hanging out with all those sexy, babe magnet helicopters should have no trouble at all," Roscoe winked suggestively.

"Till you get a little engine oil on their blouse …." Hawke quipped.

If the truth be told, he wasn't just looking to 'fool around' as Roscoe had put it. He was of an age now where he had begun to think seriously about settling down ….

But he still couldn't get over the notion that he was somehow a jinx.

That everyone he ever cared for ….

Every woman he cared for …. _**Really cared for**_ …. Ended up dead.

Dominic Santini was the only notable exception ….

And he had tried over and over to get Hawke to see that his thinking was flawed.

Irrational.

But Stringfellow Hawke was not the kind of man to put an innocent life at risk, just by falling in love with them.

He would rather live out the rest of his life alone than put the life of someone he cared for in danger.

Now that his circumstances had changed, danger was never far away, he lived with the very real possibility, every day, that he might die ….

Not that that bothered him. His own life meant little to him ….

But, those he left behind, like Dominic Santini …. He could not bear to think of the pain and grief and emptiness that the older man would be left to face alone.

And because of the nature of the work that he was doing for Archangel, anyone he truly cared for would automatically become a target ….

Because of him.

To get to him.

Stringfellow Hawke was not prepared to allow that to happen.

Even if it meant he died a lonely old hermit.

"I'm not talking marriage here, String, but let me tell you, it sure does a man a power of good to wake up next to a warm, soft, willing body now and again. We all need a little comfortin' from time to time, man, and just because you act like you _**don't**_, don't make it _**true**_," Roscoe nodded sagely.

"Maybe I'm looking for something a little deeper than just fooling around now and then …." Hawke sighed softly.

"Well, all I'm saying buddy is, you ain't gonna find it in the engine of a helicopter," Roscoe grinned. "You hear what I'm saying, man?"

"Yeah, Jimmy, I hear ya …."

There was an awkward silence then Hawke added,

"I'd better get going …."

"Yeah, me too. Look, let me know how it goes with your brother. I sure hope it works out for ya, Hawke. I know how long you've been looking for him."

"Thanks Jimmy."

Both men slid out of their seats and rose to embrace each other in a quick, hard bear hug.

"Don't be a stranger now, Jimmy …."

"And don't you forget what I said …. We all need a little lovin', pal, even you. Whatever way we can get it, whenever we can get it. You ain't no different to anybody else, String, and you deserve it, ya hear."

After he left the bar, Hawke walked a little way down the street to a telephone booth and dialled a familiar number. The line rang for several seconds before being answered by a brusque, businesslike female voice.

"Hi, can you tell me if Meredith Cook is on duty today?" He asked, calling up an image of the young nurse who worked on the psychiatric ward of the VA Hospital, and whom he had dated briefly a couple of years before.

Their fierce, passionate, mutual attraction had, regrettably, fizzled out very quickly, but they had remained friends and each would call the other from time to time to catch up and treat each other to dinner.

Hawke had never met anyone who suited her name as well as Merrie. Tall, slender, always cheerful and able to smile even in the face of life's worst adversities. Always pleasant and reasonable and able to look on the bright side, she had been the perfect foil for his broody silence and tendency to look on the darker side.

Briefly.

Too briefly.

Their love had been incandescent ….

But had burned its self out in record time.

After only six weeks, her hectic duties at the hospital and his flying commitments had put more distance between them than they could deal with, and things had just ground to a halt.

They cared for each other, and their physical attraction still blew his mind ….

But they just couldn't find enough other reasons to be together.

Sex and friendship just wasn't enough, for either of them.

Merrie was devoted to her nursing career, and String was devoted to his flying career, and never the twain shall meet ….

If anyone could corroborate what Jimmy Roscoe had just told him, Hawke knew Merrie could. She would find out all that she could, and she would lay it on the line for him, sparing no blushes and pulling no punches. He could trust her to be completely honest with him no matter how difficult the news was to take.

That was one of the main reasons they had remained friends.

She was one of the few people who understood what made him tick and didn't let him get away with his brooding silences.

Now the voice on the other end of the line was telling him that Meredith Cook would not be on duty until ten o'clock that evening and Hawke thanked her for her assistance and hung up the telephone only to pick up the handset again almost immediately and dialled another number.

Her familiar voice answered on the third ring, cheerful and bright as ever and Hawke found himself smiling in response to her cheery greeting.

"Hey Merrie …. Hawke …. How are you?"

"Hawke, how lovely to hear from you …. I'm just great!" She sounded genuinely pleased to hear his voice. "It's been too long. When are you going to make good on your promise to buy me the dinner you owe me?" She giggled.

"How about right now? You got time for a bite before you go on duty?"

"Sure do. Why don't you come on over?" She invited breathlessly. "That's if you can remember the way …."

"I remember," he chuckled softly. "Be there in about twenty minutes."

"I'll put some fresh coffee on."

He ended the call and was amazed to find himself grinning like a schoolboy as he strode back down the street to where he had parked his Jeep after following Roscoe to the bar.

It would be good to spend a couple of hours with the ever positive and charming Merrie Cook.

Just what the doctor ordered in fact, he acknowledged silently to himself as he slid inside the Jeep and gunned the engine.

Meredith Cook's apartment was just as Hawke remembered it, light and bright and comfortable, cheerfully decorated in soft pastel colours, and Merrie too was just as he remembered, tall, slender, long ebony hair falling in a dead straight curtain past her shoulders and almost down to her hips, shiny and lustrous.

She greeted him at the door with a soft peck to his rugged cheek and quickly pulled him inside, where she immediately wrapped her strong, slender, tanned arms around him and gave him a powerful hug, then pulled away and grabbing his hand guided him over to the couch, pushing him down into the seat at one end then took up position at the other end, smiling at him radiantly.

Hawke could not help but smile back.

She took his breath away.

In more ways than one.

She was a very pretty girl, with a sweet nature, loving and affectionate and genuinely caring, and he had learned that she had a big and beautiful heart.

She was tough too.

She had to be in her line of work.

In her kind of nursing she had to be both physically and mentally tough to cope with the long hours of caring for those who had been psychologically damaged by the war in Vietnam.

Seeing her now, Hawke also knew that he had missed her more than he realised.

"So?" She grinned and fixed her beautiful big blue eyes on him knowingly. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?"

"Can't a guy look up an old friend now and then?" He drawled sardonically.

"Sure Hawke …. Except you're not _**that**_ kind of guy," she chuckled. "What do you need?" She reached out and flicked a strand of his hair back behind his ear and he smiled at her.

She had always loved fiddling with his hair, running her fingers through it when they kissed …. Fascinated with it.

At first he had been a little disconcerted by it but soon he had grown to love the way she stroked his hair and dug her fingers into it when they made love, had deliberately kept it a little longer than normal to please her, knowing that she was unable to resist touching its fine, downy softness.

He also realised that she knew him much better than he thought.

"Merrie …."

"Oh come on, out with String …. We both know you wouldn't be here if it wasn't important," she reached out and stroked the back of his hand then. "That's what friends are for," she reminded him.

"Okay," he sighed softly, releasing some of the tension he felt. "You remember me telling you about my brother? St John? About how he's MIA?"

Merrie nodded gently, setting the fine shimmering blue/black curtain of her hair swishing about her narrow shoulders, understanding dawning in her luminous blue eyes.

"A guy I know says he visited the VA Hospital and the guys down there were telling him about some new admissions …."

"And he thinks that your brother might have been one of them?" She finished for him, sensing that he was finding it difficult to tell her what was truly on his mind. "And you want me to check it out?" Hawke nodded.

Merrie let out a long breath before continuing.

"Well String, to be honest, I didn't have much to do with the new intake. I had some vacation time owing, so some friends and I went to San Francisco for a couple of weeks. Only been back a few days and tonight will be my first time back on duty," she explained breathlessly.

"But, I did hear that they were mostly allocated to internal medicine, initially. I heard from some of my colleagues that most of them needed surgery on septic wounds, or to break and reset badly broken bones. All of them needed antibiotics of some kind and intravenous feeding until their systems could tolerate solid foods again because they were half starved …."

She paused then, noting the pained expression on his beloved face and recalling that he had been there too, once, a long time ago.

"But I guess I'm not telling you anything new, am I String?"

She reached out and trailed slender fingers down his rugged cheek tenderly.

"I'm not likely to see any of them until their physically in better shape," she told him honestly. "They still tend to look after the body first, and then the mind …."

This drew a wry smile from her.

"Most of them are still so shocked and traumatised they don't even realise that they are home, and until they are stronger, they keep them well sedated. But, eventually, when the truth finally hits home, that's when we get them as psych referrals because the general wards can't cope with them."

She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then.

"I don't know if your brother was amongst the new intake, String. I do remember you telling me that you were sure that he was still alive, and I did promise you that I would look out for him when any new admissions came in. And I have been. And I swear to you, String, if I had thought for one moment that one of them was your St John, I would have called you."

"I know. I don't doubt that Merrie," Hawke assured in a low, gruff voice.

She moved up next to him on the couch, kneeling up now so that she could slide her arms around him, burying her face in his neck, nuzzling him gently with her nose, her lips, holding him tightly, comfortingly.

"I'm sorry Hawke. If only I hadn't been on vacation …." She whispered against his neck.

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Merrie," he assured as she moved back slightly so that she could look at his face, although she did not let go of him, one hand rubbing up and down his back soothingly.

"I'm not even sure it was St John. Only that someone thought this one guy bore a passing resemblance to him. It's a long shot, but I can't just let it go. Not without checking …."

"Okay, when I go on duty tonight, I'll try to find out what I can from my friend, Connie. She switches between surgical and internal medicine. Tell me whatever you can about your brother and I'll see if she can recognise him from your description."


	2. Chapter 2

"Oh boy …

"Oh boy …. It must have been one helluva night!" Dominic Santini whistled through his teeth and wrestled with a smile as he entered the small back office of Santini Air and found his young friend, Stringfellow Hawke dozing in the chair behind the desk, feet resting on the corner of the desk, arms folded across his chest and eyes hidden behind his flying shades.

Stringfellow Hawke let out a low groan.

He was happy to let Dominic think that he had tied one on with Jimmy Roscoe last night, although in reality, he really was feeling a little below par, but due more to lack of sleep than excess alcohol.

After leaving Merrie at the hospital he had gone back to the office to bunk down in one of the cots Dom kept out back for nights when they had worked late and it wasn't worth his flying up to the cabin because they also had an early start the next morning.

Hawke hadn't been able to settle, tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable.

Thoughts of St John had kept him awake way past midnight, and then a nightmare had jarred him rudely awake around four thirty, and that had been the end of any chance he might have had of getting any more sleep.

Still sweating and shaking from the after effects of the nightmare, he had showered, dressed and then taken a walk around the airfield, before returning to the hangar to put on a pot of fresh strong coffee and to await Dominic Santini's arrival.

"That bad huh?" Santini chuckled. Again Hawke groaned in response.

"You gonna be able to work today?"

They didn't have any flying jobs on the books for today but there was plenty of maintenance to catch up on.

"I'm here aren't I?" Hawke growled and took his legs off the end of the desk very carefully.

"In body maybe …." Santini rolled his eyes heavenward. "Maybe you should just sleep it off, huh?"

"I'm okay, Dom," Hawke assured. "Just keep the coffee coming …."

"I hope it was worth it …." Hawke frowned at this comment. "You and Jimmy, did you drink the bar dry?"

"Nah. You know neither of us drinks water …." Hawke smirked.

He was enjoying playing along with Santini. Their playful banter always cheered him, and this morning he was in great need of being cheered.

"So?"

"So what?" Hawke shrugged.

"So, what did that reprobate have to say for himself?"

"He's dating."

"Wow!"

"Yeah. Seems quite happy about it too."

"Well. There you go then …."

"Dom …."

Now Hawke's tone was playfully threatening. He didn't want the old man to go off on one of his jags about how sitting up there in the cabin with only Tet for company wasn't good for him.

He'd heard it over and over ….

And right now he wasn't in the mood for another lecture.

"What?" Santini threw him a look of pure innocence.

"You know what," Hawke sighed. "How about some coffee?" He asked, trying to steer the older man away from the uncomfortable topic of conversation.

"Yeah. Please," Hawke pulled a face. "Oh what, you thought I would run around after you? Get outta here! Your legs as still younger than mine!"

"Alright Dom, keep your shirt on …."

Hawke sat forward gingerly, feeling the ache in the small of his back, a reminder of the uncomfortable night he had spent on the low, narrow cot, and that he wasn't as young as he used to be.

Dominic Santini watched the younger man walk slowly and carefully out to the hangar where they kept the hot plate.

"I take it back …. Geez String, you look like you just did fifteen rounds with Mohammed Ali!" Santini yelled across the hangar.

"Who?"

"You looking for a knuckle sandwich for breakfast!" Santini roared, and noted Hawke's flinch. "I know you know who I'm talking about!"

"There's no need to get so steamed, Dom …."

"What happened last night?" Dominic demanded, suddenly haunted by visions of the two younger men breaking up the bar and bustin' chairs and glasses over the other customers heads. "Did it get rowdy?"

"No."

"String …."

"No Dom …. In fact …. I left early," Hawke confessed, returning to the office with twin mugs of steaming strong black coffee and handed one to Santini.

"You mean you ain't hung over?" The younger man smiled wryly.

"No Dom," he removed his shades, revealing the dark circles under his eyes and took a welcome sip of his hot coffee.

"Then why do you look like hell?"

"I didn't sleep very well …."

"Oh …."

"Jimmy wasn't really in the mood to get drunk. He had a date," Hawke explained slowly. "And I slept out back. Mattress needs turning or something," his free hand drifted to the small of his back once more.

"You got a home to go to, with a bed of your own, so don't grouch at me. Beggars can't be choosers. So what did he want?"

Santini sipped his own coffee. It was strong and bitter and looked like old engine oil. Just the way he liked it and he smacked his lips appreciatively.

"To talk," Hawke sighed. "He told me about some MIA's they admitted to the VA Hospital, and that a buddy of his thought he recognised St John …."

"Oh String …."

There was no mistaking the look on Santini's face. It said: _**We've been here before and look how it always ends ….. Look how much it always hurts you …. Why can't you just let it go …. Get on with living your life …. How can you keep on living with the hope …. And then the disappointment ….**_

"I know it's a long shot, Dom, but I have to check it out."

"You going over there? To the hospital?"

"No, they discharged the guy a couple of days ago."

"And Jimmy only told you about this yesterday?"

"Didn't have much to tell me. Just that a mutual friend of ours saw this guy and commented that he looked like St John," Hawke took another gulp of his coffee.

"So how come the Hospital didn't contact you?"

"The guy didn't have any dog tags when he was admitted, and according to Jimmy he had amnesia. Didn't even know his own name …"

"And they let him go?" Dominic asked incredulously.

"That's what Jimmy said. Look Dom, I don't know any more than that."

"And on the strength of that you're going to go off on some wild goose chase? Are you going to get Archangel to check it out?"

"No."

Dominic Santini knew that tone of voice. It meant that Hawke had made his mind up and nothing would change it.

"Well I'm so happy to see that you are so open to advise. String, the guy has contacts …."

"Which he only uses to help us out, when it suits him," String reminded. "Look Dom, if Archangel does know about this, then it's obvious that he didn't want me to find out about it. Might change the status quo, and if he doesn't know about it, I'd say there is something wrong with those contacts of his, and maybe we should find ourselves someone a little more reliable to work for …."

"Just remember where the information came from, kid. Would you say that source was so reliable?" Santini reminded.

"I've got someone else checking it out for me. Someone I know I can trust and rely on."

"Oh?"

"Merrie …."

Santini's face lit up in a radiant smile and Hawke knew that he had opened up a whole fresh can of worms.

"Oh String, so how is that lovely lady? You and she back together …."

"She's fine Dom, and no, we aren't …. Back together …."

Santini could not hide his disappointment and Hawke let out a deep sigh.

"I asked her to look into it for me and she said that she would call me when she got off shift at seven thirty this morning," he glanced down at his wristwatch and noted that it was only six forty five. "Probably turn out to be a dead end anyway …."

Dominic Santini was quiet for a moment, sipping his coffee with a thoughtful expression on his face.

Hawke watched him with some trepidation, wondering were that devilish mind of his was going and what he would say next.

Hawke knew that Dominic was genuinely concerned for him and that his heart was in the right place. Dom wanted to see him settled with some nice girl, raising a brood of kids, happy and as carefree as any family man could be, and Lord knew, once, a very long time ago, those were the things Stringfellow Hawke had dreamed of for himself.

And then he had grown up.

Had tasted the bitterness associated with loving and committing himself to someone only to lose them, and because it kept happening to him, he had reached the conclusion that for him there would be no happy ever after endings.

"Ya know String, it sucks …."

"What sucks?" Hawke frowned. It wasn't exactly what he had been expecting the older man to come out with. "Merrie's a fine girl Dom, but …."

"Not that, clown, your love life is your own affair. Or not," Dom sighed. "I'm talking about the hospital letting this guy go, without so much as a by your leave. When you got back ….

"He suddenly grew uncomfortable, but then continued.

"When you got back, they did at least try to find out that you had someone and somewhere to go to. I don't understand how they could just discharge the guy like that …."

"We don't know for sure that that's what they did," Hawke reminded. "They could have thought that he had family to go to …."

"But you said he had amnesia," Dominic reminded.

"That's what Roscoe said …. But …. How should I know? Maybe someone showed up to claim him, or maybe they tracked down his family? In that case, I'll forget about it and get back to my own life and quit worrying about strangers. Or maybe they're so full over there at the VA Hospital they just didn't have a bed for him, and couldn't justify keeping him there if he wasn't really sick," Hawke let out a deep sigh.

"Maybe the guy just got so sick of being in that God-awful place that he convinced them that he could take care of himself. I know that I would have done just about anything to get out of there …."

"And did," Dominic smirked, recalling the temper tantrum the young Hawke had thrown to get himself released from the hospital. "But like I said, you had somewhere and someone to go to, kid. _**Me**_!" He grinned. "I didn't turn out to be such a bad nurse, did I?"

"No Dom, you were great. But you didn't have to dress up in the uniform. You really don't have the legs for it …."

Hawke chuckled and ducked to avoid being hit by the small pad of paper that suddenly came sailing through the air toward him, courtesy of Dominic Santini.

Both men roared with laughter and each time they thought they had regained their composure, they only had to look at the other and it set them off again.

For both of them it just felt so good to be able to laugh so freely.

It didn't happen nearly often enough.

Surprisingly, it was Dominic Santini who regained a modicum of composure first, knuckling away an errant tear from his cheek and grinned as Hawke did the same.

"You do know what a long shot it is …."

"Yeah, Dom., of course I do. But I gotta check it out. I owe it to him. And to myself."

"So how come they couldn't ID him? Army keeps records, fingerprints, that kinda thing, don't they?"

"Sure they do, Dom, but sometimes records get lost or destroyed. Dog tags get lost or swapped or just plain stolen. You know how crazy it was back then, and out there it was even crazier," Hawke sighed deeply.

"And prisoners of war were spared no pain or humiliation by the VC, Dom. Finger prints wouldn't be much use if those little bastards burned them off with acid or something," he pointed out, a sick expression on his face.

"They'd do that?" Dominic asked incredulously.

"Yeah Dom, they'd do that …."

"Those sick little …."

"Yeah, right …."

"He could be just about anyone …."

"He could be St John …."

"And if he's not?" Hawke just shrugged. "You really do believe he's still alive, don't you, son?"

"Yeah, Dom, I really do believe he's still alive. And that one day, I will find him. Or he'll find me. He's my brother, Dom, I'd know if he was dead. I just know I would."

"As close as the two you were, and that uncanny sixth sense of yours. I believe ya, String. Anyway, better get on with some work. Lots to do …."

Santini adjusted his bright red baseball cap on his head, drained his coffee mug and wondered out into the hangar, leaving the younger man to wait silently for the telephone to ring.

A half an hour later his patience was rewarded with the shrill ringing of the office telephone and ten minutes after that, Stringfellow Hawke emerged from the office, his expression unreadable and Dominic Santini let out a deep sigh, setting the invoices and manifests on his workbench fluttering.

"Merrie?"

"Yeah. Dom, can I borrow the Jet Ranger?" Hawke asked, preoccupied.

"Sure …. If I can have the Lady in its place!" Santini quipped but this drew a scowl from Hawke and Santini realised that the time for joking was over. "Since when did you have to ask anyway?"

"Thanks, Dom …."

"So?"

Hawke shrugged in response.

"Dammit String, don't walk out of here without giving me some idea where you're going! You know how it gets me all riled up …."

"Let's just say I fancy a little mountain air."

"And what do I tell Archangel if he should call?"

"I'm on vacation."

"String …."

Hawke understood the unspoken question in Santini's eyes now and sighed deeply.

"I don't know, Dom. Merrie said he was the right age, the right height, the right build, and he came from roughly the right area …. where St John disappeared …."

"That's it?"

"Yeah Dom, that's it. The only way to know for sure is to go see him. I'll know when I see him …."

"Ah String, at least let me go with ya …."

"No Dom," Hawke's tone brooked no argument. "This I need to do alone. Sorry old friend, but it will be easier on him and me …. if it's just the two of us …."

"So where are you going? Roughly?"

"Elk Ridge County, California. Up in the Sierra Nevada mountains."

"That's rough country, String."

"That's why I'm taking the Jet Ranger. Don't worry Dom. I'll be just fine."

"Yeah. Famous last words …." Dominic Santini muttered to Hawke's receding back as the younger man strode out of the hangar, and a few minutes later he heard the high pitched whine of the helicopter's engines, and then Hawke was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

"There ya go, fella …."

A young man wearing a weary but pleasant smile and the uniform of Elk Ridge County Police Department handed Stringfellow Hawke a mug of steaming strong black coffee.

"Thanks," Hawke immediately took a sip, sat back in his seat and put his feet up on the desk in front of him.

"Least I can do. Don't know what we would have done without ya,"

The young Deputy continued to smile tiredly.

"Sure glad you chose this week to drop into town," his eyes danced with humour but his tone was serious.

Hawke looked at the young man and wondered if he too looked as rumpled and exhausted. Soot covered the young man's face and uniform and he was trailing mud all over the nice clean station house floor.

Hawke let out a deep sigh and took another swallow of his coffee. It was good. Just what he needed to take the taste of smoke and ashes out of his mouth.

"Can I use your phone?"

"Sure, help yourself."

"Thanks," Hawke mumbled, reaching out for the telephone across the desk. "It's long distance …."

"Go ahead. After what you did around here, mister, you earned yourself just about what ever you want, when ever you want it."

The young Deputy grinned and sauntered away, leaving Hawke to make his call in private.

Stringfellow Hawke dialled the familiar number and heard it ring out at the other end.

He was tired, hungry and thirsty and felt like he hadn't had a shower in a month, his hair and clothes stinking of the smoke that had filled the air around the small town since the evening he had arrived.

His trip had turned out to be a wild goose chase, the young man he had come to find had already been reunited with his family and Hawke had blown into town in the middle of his welcome home parade.

Hawke had later discovered from the Deputy that, Patrick O'Donnell, for that was his name, it appeared, had regained his memory and discharged himself from the hospital, at which time he had called his folks and told them he was on his way home.

The local police department had checked out his story, concerned at first that two elders of their community might be being conned, after all they had believed for a long time that their son was dead ….

Then the O'Donnell's had welcomed their boy home with open arms, and an impromptu parade had been arranged.

Not wanting to intrude, Hawke had taken himself off to the local diner and ordered food and coffee and waited for it to arrive, and while he sat, the young Deputy had come into the diner to announce that there was a brush fire just outside of town and all fire department volunteers were requested to go to the fire house and report for duty.

Hawke, watching the chef disappear out of the back door, leaving his unfinished order unattended, had asked if there was anything he could do to help and once the deputy had discovered that it was his shiny multicoloured helicopter parked just outside of town, he had grabbed Hawke and told him to report to the fire chief.

Hawke had spent the next twenty four hours hauling water from the river to douse the flames which had threatened to engulf the little township and when he had begun to run low on fuel, had landed the chopper and joined the lines of fire fighters beating at the flames with anything they could to save lives and homes and livestock.

Eventually just after midnight the wind had changed direction and the flames had moved away from the town. The fire fighters had built a fire break and finally the flames were all out. Only one or two of the most remote homesteads had been damaged by the fire and no lives, human or animal had been lost.

Hawke had set about helping with the clean up operation, until just before dawn, when he had been told to take a break and get some rest. He had headed straight for the police departments' small office to check in with the Deputy and to see if he could use the telephone.

Dominic Santini, he knew, would be worried.

Hawke hadn't had a chance to call him since he had arrived and called with the news that his trip had all been something of a wild goose chase. He planned to just check in with Dominic and then he was going to find some place where he could get at least eight hours unbroken sleep, then a shower, a shave and a meal, before he could even contemplate heading back to LA.

The line kept ringing out and Hawke frowned. He had felt sure that Dominic would be at the airfield. He was an early riser and liked to get started as soon as he could. Maybe he had a flying job for one of the studios, which he had neglected to mention to Hawke.

Sighing Hawke was just about to set down the telephone receiver when a breathless Dominic Santini picked up the phone at the other end.

"String!" Santini exclaimed when he heard the younger man's familiar voice. "What the hell happened to you?"

"Nothing happened to me Dom, I just got a little side tracked …." Hawke suddenly stifled a yawn.

"You sound like hell," Santini could not hide the concern in his voice.

"I'm just tired, is all," String reassured.

"Burning the candle at both ends?"

"Something like that. They had kind of a little brush fire up here, so I volunteered to help out."

"That's some hero complex you got!" Santini sighed. "I was worried sick you crashed my helicopter."

"Oh thanks. Was it just the helicopter you were worried over?"

"Clown. You know what I mean. You okay?" Again concern edged his tone.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just tired. I'm gonna hole up here for a while, catch some sleep and then get some food and find some place to gas up the chopper, and then I'll be heading home," Hawke struggled to suppress another yawn.

"You be careful …."

"I always am."

"Call me when you start back …."

"Okay, mother hen …."

"Smartass …."

"Bye, Dom …."

Grinning, Hawke set down the telephone receiver and sat back with a deep sigh to finish his coffee.

He could imagine the look on Santini's face. Dom was a born worrier, but Hawke secretly had to admit to himself that it was good to have someone fretting over his health and welfare. It was good to know that someone cared about him.

Since that dreadful day when St John had been lost, Dom's fussing over him had made him feel less like he was completely alone in the world.

There were days when he felt so keenly that St John was still alive …. Felt like he could just simply reach out and touch him ….

But on the days when it felt like St John was really lost forever, Dom's mother hen antics had gone a long way to relieving Hawke's loneliness.

String was relieved that Dominic hadn't asked too many questions about the reason why he had made this trip. He would know how disappointed String was.

Yes, reason had told him that it was a long shot, but human need and desperation to get his brother back had made it a necessity that he check it out.

Part of him was glad for Patrick O'Donnell.

The young man's ordeal was finally over and he was returned to the bosom of his family after years of hell in that Asian jungle, and all Hawke could do was to continue to believe that one day it would be St John's turn to be reunited with his brother ….

And in the mean time, get on with living his own life the best way that he could.

It was almost noon of the following day before Stringfellow Hawke was ready to start his journey homeward.

The good people of the township of Elk Ridge had found him a comfortable bed to bunk down in and arranged for his clothes to be laundered ready for the next day, and he had slept soundly, dreamlessly and undisturbed for almost nine hours straight.

He had then spent a good half an hour soaking in a deep tub of hot soapy water, feeling all the little scratches and burns on his forearms where his skin had been exposed to flying ashes and smouldering debris during the firestorm, and allowing the heat of the water to ease away the aches he felt in his lower back and shoulders.

Dinner time found him in the small dining room of the bed and breakfast accommodation, alone, as there were no other guests staying at the facility, and he gladly ordered the house omelette speciality and devoured it ravenously washing it down with mineral water, because coffee would keep him awake and he didn't want alcohol if he was going to be flying any time soon.

After dinner he had retired early and slept straight through and that morning, after a light breakfast, because he was feeling a little queasy, he had spent time checking out the chopper and finding out where he could find aviation fuel near by.

The young Deputy proved to be quite helpful in that respect informing Hawke that there was a small private airfield not far away and that if they called ahead, they could probably have a Bowser waiting all ready for him.

Noon saw Hawke ready to leave at last, and it was none too soon for him, for as the morning had gone on he had found himself feeling more and more off colour.

He was pretty sure that he had a temperature and he had a pounding headache jabbing away at the inside of his skull. He still ached all over and he began to suspect that he was coming down with flu, or something similar, by the time he climbed into the pilot's seat and lifted off, heading for the airfield and his rendezvous with the fuel dowser.

"Geez Louise, you sound terrible …." Had been Dominic Santini's comment when Hawke had called to let him know his departure time and flight plan details.

"Thanks for that, Dom."

"No kid, I mean it. You sound awful."

"I feel awful. I guess it's my body's way of telling me it doesn't much care for being abused any more. No rest for twenty four hours and then too much sleep and too much food. I must be getting old. I'll be okay, Dom …." Hawke assured.

"Look String, there's no rush for you to get back. Why don't you lay low for another day, until you feel better?"

"I want to get home, Dom. There's a storm brewing up here and if I leave now I can just about out run it and make it back to LA before dark."

"Well, you know best …."

"I do? Oh yeah, I do," String had chuckled. "See you tonight, Dom. I hope you remembered to check on Tet for me."

"You worry too much about that old hound …."

"And about you too, you old hound."

"Get outta here! What's your ETA?"

"I'm leaving any minute now and hoping for a good tailwind. I should touch down by four. Four thirty. No later than that …."

The flight to the airfield took Hawke about ten minutes and as promised the Bowser of fuel was all ready and waiting for him.

He paid for the gas and left the attendant to top up the chopper, as he was suddenly forced to run to the Men's washroom, where he was violently sick.

Hawke washed his hands, rinsed out his mouth and threw cold water on his burning face and then looked up slowly, gazing forlornly at his ashen reflection in the dull, finger marked mirror above the sink.

He looked every bit as awful as he felt and he let out a low groan.

Of all the times to be coming down with something.

He began to think twice about tackling the long flight back to Los Angeles, but the thought of staying where he was made him feel even worse.

He needed to make up his mind though, and finally, after throwing more water on his face and taking several deep breaths to quell the nausea, String decided that he would at least make a start on his journey home. If his health deteriorated then he would find a place to land and hole up in a motel or a guest house someplace until he felt well enough to continue.

It was a compromise that he could live with and as he jogged back to the chopper he tried not to think about how bad he felt.

The guy tending the fuel Bowser threw him a sympathetic look and asked if he was feeling okay. In response Hawke nodded and then climbing inside, reached into his flight bag and took out a bottle of water and a small bottle of aspirin from which he shook out two and swallowed them down with the water, praying that they would stay down when he felt his stomach roil.

Fuelling completed at last, Hawke lifted off and pointed the chopper in the direction of home, climbing up to cruising altitude quickly, scanning all his gauges to make sure that the chopper was performing to maximum capability.

He tried to relax but his head was still pounding and the odd pocket of turbulence sent his stomach rolling, waves of nausea crashing over him.

The first hour of the flight was uneventful ….

But then, all around him, storm clouds began to gather, darkening the sky and making the air oppressive and heavy.

After another thirty minutes, the turbulence began to get worse.

Every time the helicopter dipped and bounced, Hawke felt more nauseous.

He had never had a problem with air sickness in his life, but he was suddenly able to sympathise with those who suffered from it on commercial airlines and joy rides over the Grand Canyon alike.

He suspected that if he looked in a mirror right now he would be able to do a passable impression of the Jolly Green Giant, and when the chopper suddenly hit a larger pocket of turbulence and his seat disappeared momentarily out from under him, Stringfellow Hawke decided that it was way past time to set the bird down and hole up until he felt better.

There were times, he had learned, that retreat _**is**_ the better part of valour.

He could handle illness, and flying through a storm was like second nature to him, but even he would rather not have to deal with both at the same time.

The radio hissed ominously as he called out to the local air traffic controller, a further indication that the brewing storm was getting closer, and every time he thought he had gotten through, the transmission was broken up by static.

He was going to have to find some place to set the chopper down, but everywhere he looked all he could see were jagged mountain tops, snow capped even at this time of the year, and densely wooded mountainsides.

Thirty minutes more and the rain began, hitting the windshield of the chopper like pellets shot out of a peashooter and splattering across the windshield, and not long after that, the wind picked up, gusting viciously, making the stick hard to control, needing all Hawke's strength just to maintain level flight ….

And then thunder rolled and lightning illuminated the sky all around him.

_**Dammit ….**_

Hawke knew that now he really had no choice.

He would have to find a place to ditch and hope that somebody picked up his Mayday signal.

He began to make his descent, circling slowly, peering through the gloom that now surrounded him to try to find a safe place to land, but it was almost as dark as night out there and it was impossible to discern between treetops and mountainside.

Suddenly the cockpit was brightly illuminated, a loud bang emanating from the rear of the chopper and sparks and smoke pouring out of the control panel before him.

"Ah, shoot …."

Hawke found that he had no control over the helicopter, no matter how much he coaxed the stick, the altimeter was spinning around so quickly looking at it was making him dizzy, and the ground was rushing up to meet him at a terrifying speed.

With stomach clenching certainty, Hawke knew that the tail rotor had taken a hit from the lightening and it had also shorted out the electrics. Acrid smoke was quickly filling the cockpit, making him feel even more dizzy and disorientated.

The electrical systems were fried.

That meant the radio too.

_**Dammit ….**_

He couldn't make a Mayday call now.

And he was losing power.

He would be lucky to make a controlled landing ….

_**Who was he kidding?**_

_**Landing?**_

_**He was in an uncontrollable spin and going down fast ….**_

_**Landing hell ….**_

_**He was going to crash ….**_

And not for the first time in his illustrious flying career ….

He had had some near misses and close shaves over the years and one very frightening experience, under fire in 'Nam, but he had always managed to walk away, and never once had he been unable to face getting back in the cockpit.

As a professional pilot, Hawke had always known that some day, no matter how good he was at his job, and using his wits, there could come a time when circumstances would intervene and he would not be able to walk away.

To a certain degree he still had to rely on the element of luck ….

And it looked like his had run out this time.

The odds were stacked against him.

No matter how he looked at it, he couldn't see that he would walk away unscathed from this one.

But hell ….

It was the hand he had been dealt, and he had to play with it.

He would just have to hope that the trees, in full foliage at this time of the year, would cushion the landing, and maybe he would be able to crawl away from the wreckage and try to get help.

All this flashed through his mind in an instant as he struggled to keep the helicopter from bucking and bouncing, choking on the acrid smoke pouring out of the console before him ….

And then there was no more time to think, the tree canopy was looming large in the window before him and the wind and the rain were smashing against the chopper making any attempt at a controlled landing futile.

Gravity would always win in the end.

Bracing himself as best he could, Hawke could only sit back and wait as the chopper made contact with the first tree and tumbled earthward through the twisted branches with an eerie screeching sound.

As he felt the chopper collide with the first branches, Hawke killed the main engine and let gravity and perpetual motion take control. He was already being tossed around like food in a blender, if the main rotor detached, he knew it could slice and dice him like processed beef, before he even hit the ground …. not a prospect he relished.

_**Bet Disney would pay a fortune for a ride like this!**_

Hawke thought with grim humour as the chopper hurtled toward the ground, the noise of thunder, wind and tree branches breaking all around him was deafening.

One sudden violent lurch sideways tossed Hawke against the door, slamming his head against the metal frame, and before the chopper finally hit the ground and screeched to a halt, he had passed in to blessed unconsciousness.


	4. Chapter 4

Fiona Cromwell could not believe how quickly darkness had descended as she turned around to shake hands with Mathew Preston. It was only about three o'clock in the afternoon, but it was as dark as midnight.

A sharp gust of wind tugged at her short chestnut brown hair and sent a shiver down her spine, as a distant rumble of thunder rolled over the mountainside.

"Looks like we could be in for a rough night," Mathew commented wryly. "You mind you take care getting home. Roads here 'bouts can be treacherous in a sudden rain storm," He advised sagely. "Thanks for everything," he added shyly, suddenly growing coy.

The young homesteader, tall and strong as an ox had panicked when his pregnant young wife, Carrie, had suddenly gone into premature labour, and had been next to useless in offering Fiona any help in delivering his first born son into the world safely.

She had spent the best part of the last eighteen hours tripping over him and the copious amounts of boiling water he seemed to think went along with the task of birthing a baby.

Fiona smiled softly, huddling into her coat as the wind whipped up around her and tugged at her hair.

"Congratulations Mathew. He's a fine boy. Don't hesitate to call on me if you need anything …."

"Sure thing, Doc. I'd offer to take you home, but I don't want to leave them," he indicated back inside the cabin with his thumb.

"Nonsense, it's only a little rain. I'll be fine," she assured and then ran from the porch to her jeep, just as the sky began to open up with a huge deluge of rain. The wind was gusting so violently as she started the engine, that even the sturdy Jeep was rocked violently in its grip, and another shudder ran down Fiona's spine.

_**Welcome to the great outdoors!**_

She had _**chosen**_ this way of life, she reminded herself.

She had made the decision to move out here, and had not regretted it for a single moment.

Life in the city had become so unbearable that Fiona had finally reached a point in her life when some days, she could not face getting out of bed.

Her health had suffered too and so one day, she had taken a good look around, realised that there was nothing and no-one keeping her where she was, and no-one that she would especially miss, and so she had made the decision, opting for clean mountain air and crystal clear mountain water and scenery that took your breath away when you flung open the drapes in the mornings.

Fiona also felt that the work that she was doing out here was more worthwhile, and definitely more satisfying to her personally. It was a very small, rural community although well spread out, and she was the only doctor serving their medical needs in the good old fashioned way.

A good old fashioned country doctor.

She loved it.

She thrived on it, facing new challenges every day.

She had very little in the way of fancy equipment, and no budget to purchase things even when they were beyond their life expectancy. She was always having to mend and make do, but somehow, she managed.

She worked out of a small office in the nearest town, down in the valley, three full days and two half days a week, holding clinics and surgeries.

Her practice consisted of three drafty little rooms that were barely bigger than store cupboards, her office cum consulting room, a small exam room, and an observation ward with two beds and not much else, which she occasionally used for minor surgical procedures and if patients needed to be isolated or kept in for observation after their minor surgery, using old fashioned equipment.

The rest of the week she worked out of her Jeep, visiting the house bound and those members of the community who could not get into town, and answering emergency calls ….

Like today ….

From time to time she also helped out the local police, acting in the capacity of Forensic Medical Examiner, on the rare occasion they had need of someone to carry out a forensic examination of a crime scene.

She had attended the odd fatal road accident, and the discovery of a body in a burned out barn, but mostly she was called out to examine drunk drivers, sudden deaths at home, and those who had been inconsiderate enough to get drunk and rowdy on a Saturday night, thus spoiling the tranquillity of their picturesque little town, only to be rewarded with a night in jail.

On those occasions the Chief of Police would require her to make sure that his 'guests' were fit to spend the night behind bars.

None of these things taxed her too much, but they offered her just enough variety in her work to keep her satisfied.

In the two years since she had moved up here, Fiona had also discovered that there was plenty of time for her to do the things she enjoyed.

She loved to walk the mountains, learning about the different species of trees and flowers and wildlife that populated the dense growth of woodland which clung to the mountainside, and she had begun taking her sketch pad with her, although it had been a long time since she had drawn anything except the intricate and detailed diagrams that she had been required to produce for her medical degree, but soon her confidence began to grow and she felt that her technique was improving all the time.

Recently, she had even started to dabble in water colours.

She just loved to sit on her porch and watch the sun rise or set over her domain, wishing that she had the talent to paint those magnificent spectacles, a crocheted shawl draped over her knees to combat the chill and a favourite book open on her lap, lost in the still silence.

It had taken most of the last two years for the people and the place to work their magic, but at long last, she finally felt able to say that she had put the past behind her and had moved on.

It was a far cry from the life that she had lived before, but she truly felt that it was a much better life now.

However, despite the fact that she had lived amongst them for two years, she was still considered to be an outsider by the locals.

It would probably stay that way if she lived all her life here in Pine Valley, Northern California ….

Died here ….

It didn't matter too much to her.

She had come out here for a quiet life, craving peace and tranquillity after the hectic life she had led thus far, and the fact that her neighbours respected her privacy and didn't try to get too close to her suited her just fine.

Of course there were times when she didn't feel that her mountain home was quite so idyllic ….

On days when the very basic and unreliable plumbing in her cabin froze solid only for the pipes to burst open when the thaw set in, or when a howling gale tore off the shingles on her roof and water streamed in through the gaping hole, or when a curious bear prowled around at night and wolves and coyotes howled in the distance, reminding her just how remote and isolated she was.

Nights much like this one was turning out to be. Inky dark, no light penetrating through the leafy canopy around her and rain pelting down out of a heavy, leaden sky.

She had traded medical advise with her patients and in return had gotten them to show her how to lag her pipes and fix shingles and fire a shotgun well enough to protect herself and scare off any ambitious bears or wolves or coyotes, and in so doing had also learned that there was nothing that she could not face and overcome if she set her mind to it.

She was a stronger person now than she had ever been, physically, mentally and emotionally.

She was at peace with herself now.

Two years ago, that was something that she thought she would never know again.

Suddenly, over the roar of the wind and thunder and rain, she heard another sound, one that almost stopped her heart dead and made her blood run cold in her veins.

It was a sound so familiar and so frighteningly out of place that for a moment she froze, taken back to a time and place she never wanted to revisit again in her life, then, coming to her senses, forcing the images of steaming jungle and smoke blackened wreckage and the screams and cries of dying men out of her mind, she slammed on the brakes and swerved to avoid a huge waterlogged pothole in the dirt road ahead.

The Jeep skidded to a halt just short of a line of trees and despite the torrential rain, her breath coming in short, ragged little gasps, Fiona rolled down the window and peered up through the rain and the canopy of leaves and was astonished to find that she had not dreamed it.

_**A helicopter?**_

_**Up here?**_

She could hear the drone of the engine. Except that there was something not quite right with it. Not quite as she remembered, and she could see the lights on the under side spinning around wildly.

Something was definitely wrong.

_**Oh God no ….. **_

_**Not again ….**_

Suddenly the howling and roaring of the wind and the booming of the thunder changed to the ear splitting, bone jarring cacophony of shells and mortars exploding all around her.

She closed her eyes and jammed her balled fists into her ears, trying to block out the remembered din.

It wasn't real.

It wasn't happening _**now**_ ….

But she also knew that it wasn't one of her nightmares.

The noise, the spinning lights ….

_**They were both real.**_

"_**Dammit …. Dammit**_ …. Pull yourself together, _**idiot**_." She screamed at herself over the noise.

She needed to get control of herself because somewhere close by there was a pilot in trouble, and when that tin can with an egg beater on top came falling to earth, as it surely would …. They always did …. He was probably going to need her help.

They had all needed her help, back there in 'Nam ...

_**So many of them ….**_

_**So young ….**_

She had to quit thinking about it.

Put the past out of her mind and focus on the here and now.

An icy blast of wind, down draft from the helicopter, slammed into her face like a slap, pulling her out of her reverie, and squinting upwards against the driving rain, she peered through the gloom, trying to judge where the stricken aircraft might come to earth.

She could already hear the screaming and cracking of branches as the machine tumbled through the canopy and she put the jeep back into gear and reversed carefully back on to the makeshift road, head half hanging out of her window as she tried to track the helicopter's final fall to the ground.

She lost sight of it in the dense canopy several yards ahead, but guessed that if she just kept going she would come upon the wreckage soon enough.

She offered up a silent prayer that the fuel tanks would not rupture and the aircraft burst into flame ….

There would be nothing that she could do to help the person trapped inside if that happened ….

Just like in 'Nam ….

_**Don't think about that now!**_ She silently admonished herself.

It's not the same ….

Not the same at all ….

It isn't Mitch in there ….

It'll be alright …. It'll be alright ….

_**It has to be alright ….**_

The thin, narrow beams of her headlights barely picked out the way ahead and she had to slow right down to make sure that she didn't run into the trees that lined the road.

She wasn't familiar with this part of the track, which was slick with mud and rivulets of water, and she had to fight hard to keep the Jeep from fishtailing wildly, and pretty soon Fiona discovered that the trees and bushes on either side of the track were closing in on her and the dirt road was choked with dead trees, felled in the last of the winter storms some time ago.

Shortly, she could go no further, but she guessed that she would not have far to go on foot to find the downed helicopter.

She could no longer hear the crashing of metal against wood and the ailing hum of the engine.

But neither could she see the dancing orange glow of fire or smell the acrid stench of smoke ….

She had never been more relieved in her life that she had the two way radio in the jeep with her, so that she could call up the Police Department and try to get some help. Despite her meagre budget, and theirs, they had somehow managed to make the money stretch to buying the equipment, justifying it to the Mayor by reminding him just how isolated the community was and just how widely spread out around the mountainside it's tax paying citizens were.

While the City Council had mulled over the decision, Fiona had almost decided to use her own money to buy the radio equipment but she was already using her meagre salary and dwindling savings to supplement equipment and supplies at the clinic, using it to get essential equipment repaired, and to pay for expensive lab tests to be carried out on patients who might be terminally ill and could not afford to pay for them themselves.

Eventually, she and Chief of Police, Dan McEwan had managed to make the Mayor and the City Council see that the radio equipment was an absolute necessity. It was a pretty basic model, but it did the trick and was a far more reliable way of communicating in an area where telephone lines came down with startling regularity and the telephone company took weeks to get around to sending crews out to fix the problem.

"Pine Valley Police Department, this is Dr Fiona Cromwell, come in please!" She had to shout into the microphone to make her self heard over the noise of the wind and rain and thunder. "Pine Valley Police Department, please respond …."

"Hey Doc, keep your shirt on!"

A high pitched female voice responded after a burst of static crackled over the radio.

Fiona's heart sank.

Mona Baker, the elderly dispatcher was never the easiest person to have to deal with. She had been doing the job since God was a boy and she defended her position in the front line at the station house vigorously. She was way past retirement age but still sharp as a tack, which, apart from the fact that she was Mayor Briggs' sister, was the main reason Dan McEwan put up with her sass.

"We're kinda busy here right now …."

"And I've got quite a situation _**here**_ Mona …. Is Dan there?"

"Honey, he's out dealing with a car wreck on the Pine Ridge Road …."

The way Mona said 'honey' reminded Fiona of the older woman's irrational dislike of her and after two years of placating and going out of her way to be nice, polite, respectful and helpful to Mona, she still had no idea what it was about her that rubbed the older woman up the wrong way.

But now was not the time to get involved in a tiff with Mona Baker.

_**Damn ….**_

"The Chief and half the Police Department are out there now trying to sort out the tangle …."

"Mona, will you please try to get him on the radio. I've got a serious problem here and I'm going to need some help …."

"It'll have to wait Doc, I just told you …."

"Mona, I know what you told me. Look. I'm somewhere between the Preston place and my cabin, and I just saw a helicopter crash up here …. "

"What did you say Doc? The Preston place? Did Carrie have the baby?"

Fiona let out a deep sigh.

_**That's right Mona …. Get your priorities right …. A nice juicy piece of gossip for you to pass on to your cronies!**_ Fiona thought angrily.

"She had a beautiful boy, Mona, and Mother and son are doing just fine. Now, if you don't mind, and if it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you try to get Dan on the horn for me and tell him there is a crashed helicopter up here on the mountain!"

"Crashed helicopter ya say? Okay Doc, you don't have to be so snooty about it!"

"Mona …. "

Fiona paused, counting to ten so that she would keep control of her temper, then continued.

"If Dan's not there, get me Charlie. Get me anyone. I need people up here to help with a rescue and fast!"

"Okay, Doc. Hold on a minute …."

Fiona heard another blast of static over the airwaves and it seemed like eternity before another familiar male voice came over the radio.

"Doc Cromwell, Bill Stanley here, over."

"Roger Bill, read you loud and clear …."

Bill was in his late fifties and was a stickler for protocol and procedure. He much preferred doing things the old fashioned way and that included using formal language on the radio, and Fiona thought it only respectful to do the same.

"I've got an emergency here. Helicopter crashed on the mountain roughly half way between Mathew Preston's place and my cabin. I'm going to head out on foot to see if I can locate the wreckage. See if there are any survivors …. Can you organise a rescue party? Over."

"Roger that, Doc. Most of the volunteers are attending an RTA right now, but I'll recall as many of them as I can. How many men do you reckon you'll need? Over."

"At least four. Paramedics with strong backs. We'll need neck braces and spinal boards …."

"You need the Fire Department too?"

"Bill, I can't see any obvious signs of fire, although we you might want to make a couple of those guys firemen and ask them to bring along cutting gear. We may have to cut survivors out of the wreckage …. Over."

"Roger that Doc. Please be careful out there Doc. It's a real evil night."

"Roger. Roger. It sure is …."

Fiona found herself smiling despite the seriousness of the situation.

"I'll leave the lights on the Jeep on so you guys can see where I've left the trail and if it's safe to leave the casualty I'll try to get back here and radio in when I know more about what we are dealing with. Maybe try to guide you in. Over."

"Roger that Doc. All received. I'll get on to it right away, and let Chief McEwan know when he gets back from the incident at Pine Ridge Road …."

"Okay Bill. Was that one bad?"

"No survivors …."

"Roger. Out."

_**Okay …. so she was going to be on her own for a while ….**_

With her heart in her mouth, after winding up her window, she got out of the Jeep, leaving the engine running and the headlights on, as she had told Officer Stanley, to ensure that the inside of the Jeep would be warm when she got back and the rescue team would find the vehicle more easily.

She grabbed her medical bag off the back seat of the Jeep and as she forged her way into the dense undergrowth, went through a mental inventory of the supplies and equipment it contained and what she had used at the birth of the Preston baby.

There was, of course the usual paraphernalia, stethoscope, thermometer, blood pressure cuff and meter, bandages, assorted sterile dressing packs and suture kit.

She also always carried small amounts of sedative, just in case a patient needed to be subdued and antibiotics and insulin and adrenalin ….

Just enough of everything to allow her to administer basic help at the scene of any accident or trauma.

The wind was like a raging animal, pulling her hair and her coat in every direction as she made her way slowly and carefully down the muddy trail, but still slipping and sliding on the waterlogged ground, reaching out with her free hand to grab the odd tree stump to stop herself from falling …. Cursing her choice of footwear ….

Summer sandals for crying out loud!

The rain was falling in a sheet and she was soaked to the skin, despite the raincoat that she was wearing and her hair was plastered to her head in a soggy mess.

Several times she lost her footing and only just managed to save herself from falling flat on her ass, and she knew that her face was smeared with mud and moss stains from where she had been forced to push her dripping hair out of her eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

At last she came crashing out of the dense undergrowth, finding herself on the fringes of a clearing and there, barely discernable amongst the tangled tree roots and undergrowth, squinting rain water out of her eyes, she could just make out the shape of

At last Fiona Cromwell came crashing out of the dense undergrowth, finding herself on the fringes of a clearing and there, barely discernable amongst the tangled tree roots and undergrowth, squinting rain water out of her eyes, she could just make out the shape of the crashed helicopter.

Her heart was beating wildly in her chest and she felt a wave of panic seize her.

_**She couldn't do this ….**_

_**Not again ….**_

But if she didn't do something to help whoever was still inside, they would not last very long out here on the mountain, exposed to the elements and the wildlife.

Right now she was their only chance for survival.

_**So she had better damned well pull her self together, quit hyperventilating and get her tush over there pronto!**_ She told herself sternly.

_**You can do this, kiddo.**_

This is second nature to you.

You survived in 'Nam under worse conditions than this and there is nothing that you haven't already seen …. Already had to deal with ….

_**It can't be Mitch.**_

He's gone ….

Gone, for a very long time.

_**At least there's no enemy fire this time ….**_

She stood still in the pouring rain, fists clenched at her side as she willed herself to find the courage to go on ….

To put the horrors of the past from her mind and focus on what needed to be done right here and now, possibly to save another human beings' life ….

Forcing herself to breathe slowly, regulating her heartbeat, although her hands were still shaking, and then she marched across the clearing to get a better look at the tangle of metal that had once been a helicopter.

Immediately her training kicked in.

The first thing she had to do was to make sure that she wasn't putting herself in any unnecessary danger. She wouldn't be much use to the pilot if a dead branch fell on her head and knocked her out, or killed her, or if she got an electric shock from any wires exposed on the control panel ….

Fiona sniffed the air but could not smell aviation fuel as she carefully paced around the wreckage for several minutes, until she was satisfied that no loose debris was about to come crashing down on her head, and then she carefully made her way to the front of the wreckage.

The helicopter must have been quite a sturdy model and it was certainly quite gaily painted in patriotic red, white and blue stars and stripes, for there was little damage to the actual body of the cockpit. Yes, the front windshield was smashed, spidery cracks reaching out from a large hole almost in the middle of the front window, and the main rota overhead was twisted and bent at odd angles. The tail rota was buckled and blackened and spinning lazily in the gusting wind, but the doors were closed and, thankfully, appeared to be unimpaired by debris.

As she got closer she could make out a figure slumped over in the pilot's seat, half hunched forward and half huddled over against the door.

It looked like a man, but the way his head was lolling forward and slightly to one side, she could not make out his features.

He was alone in the cockpit and she felt a moment of relief that she would only have to deal with one casualty.

She grabbed hold of the door handle and tried to open it, positioning herself to catch the pilot, knowing that from the way he was resting against the door frame he was likely to fall out on top of her.

As she opened the door, his body slid slowly towards her and she caught hold of him gently, not yet knowing where he might be injured or how badly, just wanting to stop him from falling to the ground.

He was solidly built but not over weight, muscular and toned, certainly not fat and she was able to sustain his weight, if only briefly, whilst she conducted her silent initial visual examination of her patient.

Fiona quickly became aware that he was still wearing the safety belt across his lap, and that the lower part of his body was caught up in the pedals and the stick arrangement, so she carefully eased him upright, back into his seat and putting her hand under his chin to raise his head and clear his airway, she lowered herself down on to the ledge of the chair, balancing carefully and using her weight to stop her patient from falling out of his seat.

The first thing she noted was that he was unconscious ….

The second, that he was breathing.

It was a slightly ragged and laboured sound and she found herself wondering if he had cracked a rib or two with the force of the landing, his upper torso colliding with the stick or even the control panel …. Safety belts often saved lives, but these lap straps offered little in the way of support to the upper body and casualties often sustained fractured ribs ….

She had no way to tell for sure if this man had sustained such injuries until she got him out of the cockpit.

She felt for his pulse, it was rapid but strong, and he felt warm to the touch, clammy too, she noted, as she pushed his fringe, back from his forehead tenderly, feeling the clean, fine, baby softness of his hair where it wasn't matted with blood, pouring from a scalp wound, dripping down the left side of his face and onto his chin. It looked quite deep, possibly requiring a stitch, but she knew that scalp wounds could look worse than they really were.

He let out a soft moan as her fingers gently probed the gash on his head for glass fragments, and she moved back slightly, watching his face for signs that he was regaining consciousness.

His eyes fluttered briefly, lids opening slowly as though it took a massive effort on his part, to reveal deep blue eyes, which he seemed to be finding difficulty in focusing.

He made a jerky movement and then let out another deep groan as the pain he was experiencing registered.

"Easy. It's okay. You're safe," Fiona reassured in a soft voice, stilling him with a gentle hand to his shoulder. "Rest easy," she advised, but it was already too late, he had drifted off back to the netherworld of unconsciousness again.

Fiona let out a soft sigh and continued with her visual examination of his head and face and upper torso.

Aside from the gash to his scalp, he had a large bruise and a lump developing on the right side of his face where he had obviously collided with the door frame when the helicopter had been pitching and tossing on its rapid and uncontrollable descent to the ground.

That could mean a possible fracture of the cheek bone, she also noted.

She tried to position his head so that it would not fall forward but his body slumped limply forward under the influence of gravity, and he let out another soft moan as his body strained against the safety belt.

Fiona watched him closely for a moment, wondering if he might regain consciousness again ….

At least enough to give her an indication of his injuries, before she had to move him, but, he did not open his eyes or make another sound, except for the rattling inhalation and exhalation of his breathing.

She knew that she had a problem.

She needed to move him, but she did not know the best way to go about it.

She also knew that he had injuries to his upper body but she could only guess at what else she might find ….

And to move him might put his life in more danger.

She had no idea how stable the wreckage was, and she needed to get both of them into the warm and out of this terrible storm.

All these trees and this twisted metal were like a magnet for the lightning ….

But moving him before she had done a thorough examination could kill him.

If he had internal bleeding, or a damaged artery moving him could cause him to go into shock or possibly to bleed to death.

She knew that the only sensible course of action was to wait for the rescue team to arrive and use the cutting gear to allow her to get better access to his legs and to free him from the collective and stick and pedals which were obstructing his lower body ….

Which may, or may not have also sustained an injury to major blood vessels.

Fiona turned her attention to his lower body now, gently moving her hands downward from his waist, slowly probing down each leg, firstly the left one, which meant that she had to carefully stretch over his inert body, but she soon satisfied herself that there were no broken bones or open wounds, however, half way down his right leg she encounter a warm stickiness which she knew to be blood, and as she moved carefully lower, he let out a deep moan as her fingers encountered sharp bone protruding from his shin and again lower down at the joint with his ankle.

_**Damn.**_

They would have to be extra careful when they moved him, so that they did not disturb the broken bones and penetrate an artery ….

If that wasn't already the case, of course.

There wasn't really much that she could do now except make him more comfortable.

She had to wait for help to arrive so that she could get him out of the cockpit and flat on the ground so that she could immobilise the leg in a splint.

He was unconscious but still able to feel pain, which was not a good sign.

He was in pretty bad shape.

Suspected broken ribs, maybe a concussion or even a fractured skull, caused by the blows to the head, possible internal injuries and a badly broken leg and ankle which may or may not be bleeding uncontrollably.

He needed immediate medical treatment and he needed to be in a hospital as soon as possible.

And all that was available to him right now was a poor country doctor and her clapped out X-ray machine.

It was too dark to get a good look at that leg, but feeling around she found that it was actually his shoe that was caught under the foot pedal and the torn leg of his jeans snagged against the stick.

With these obstacles out of the way, and with the right amount of pushing and pulling and man handling, he might come out of the cockpit without any further hindrances.

But without knowing how badly damaged his leg was ….

Hell he could have a broken neck ….

Broken back ….

Any number of serious but not immediately obvious injuries ….

If she wasn't very careful, she would end up killing him.

He wasn't a heavily built man but he was solidly built, lean and muscular ….

Unconscious, he would be a dead weight.

Even if she managed to get him out of the cockpit on her own, she was going to have to get him to dry ground, slipping and sliding in the mud all the way.

Fiona's heart began to beat wildly in her chest.

No.

Despite the strong instinct to move him, Fiona knew that she could not.

For him to have any real chance of survival she had to leave well alone until the volunteer rescue team arrived.

Hands shaking and knees knocking together, Fiona took a deep breath and leaned inside the cockpit once more, reaching across the inert man to check the pulse in his neck. She did not even dare to free the safety belt mechanism, despite the fact that it might release some of the pressure on his chest and enable him to breathe more easily. It was stopping him from slipping down in his seat, if nothing else.

Immediately he slumped forward in his seat again, upper body under the influence of gravity whilst his lower body was still held in place by the safety belt, letting out another low moan and Fiona just managed to support his shoulders enough to stop him from falling out of the seat, his head lolling over her shoulder.

Suddenly his body began to shake violently, and he vomited over her shoulder and down her back.

He let out a deep moan and his head lolled lifelessly against her shoulder.

"Sorry …." A soft, low male voice slurred thickly into her shoulder.

"It's okay," Fiona reassured, gently rubbing his lower back. "Believe me, I've had worse first dates," she quipped and then realised from the way his body sagged against her own that he had again slipped into oblivion.

There was no time to be embarrassed.

The sickness indicated to her that the possibility of his having sustained a concussion was very real.

She eased him back into his seat, and then ripped her coat off and pulled out the belt from around the waist. She quickly discarded the coat, tossing it out into the clearing where the wind caught hold of it and tossed it into some distance shrubs ….

And then she carefully slipped the belt around his broken leg, tying it securely to make a tourniquet, then after rummaging around in the undergrowth close to the wreckage, she found a thick twig which she could use to alternately turn the tourniquet tight and then release it at regular intervals.

It wasn't ideal, but it would do the job for now.

The findings of her preliminary examination did not fill Fiona with confidence.

He was definitely showing signs of bruising and tenderness around his ribs, and the bruise on the side of his face was becoming more livid with every passing minute. He winced when she palpated his abdomen, pressing it gently, and instinctively he tried to draw up his knees in pain, and in the next instant was vomiting again, this time conscious enough and having enough presence of mind to turn his head away from her and not vomit all over her.

Fiona knew that his reaction to her gentle probing could mean that he had some kind of internal bleeding ….

And the leg worried her ….

_**Really **_worried her ….

Frankly, the leg was a mess, the shattered end of his Tibia had nicked the blood vessels and although now the leg was immobilised the bleeding had slowed a little, she was going to have to be very careful how she moved him because she could also feel a break in the Fibia close to the joint with his ankle.

The leg was going to need cleaning and suturing and at least some delicate micro surgery to seal the blood vessels before she could set the bones.

At that moment in time she wasn't sure if the leg could be saved ….

She spent a moment fishing a somewhat soggy tissue from her sleeve and gently wiping a dribble of vomit and the clotting blood from his chin before opening up her medical bag and finding her thermometer and blood pressure testing equipment.

She quickly discovered that he had a fever, which could mean that he either had an infection in that leg ….

Or maybe he had been feeling off colour before the crash, which might also account for the vomiting.

She wouldn't know until he was conscious enough to be asked.

His blood pressure was low too, an indication perhaps that the abdominal tenderness meant that he had maybe damaged his spleen ….

Or that he had ruptured a major blood vessel internally somewhere ….

_**Dammit **_... __that was all she needed.

She was a competent surgeon, but she only had the most rudimentary equipment with which to treat him. The exam room of her clinic was not the same thing as a sterile operating room and she had no qualified staff to assist her in performing surgery.

Her practice could barely afford to hire a part time nurse, who had to be both a nurse and a receptionist and a clerk. The middle aged woman Fiona had hired was competent and willing, but she had very little hands on experience with the patients.

On the rare occasions when Fiona had scheduled minor surgery at the clinic she had used Dr Frank Oberman, the dentist from over in Oak Valley, to administer the anaesthetic, but on a night like this, even if he was available, it would be next to impossible for him to get here. Violent sudden rain storms often washed even the main roads between Oak Valley and Pine Valley clean away and the river became a raging torrent that separated the two communities for days.

Fiona was becoming more and more concerned by what she found, and with the types of injuries that she was going to have to deal with on her own, without the aid of an anaesthetist or surgical support team.

She had small stocks of surgical equipment and supplies at the clinic, sterile swabs, dressings, drapes, gowns and masks, anti sceptic, scalpels and suture kits and a meagre supply of drugs including antibiotics, saline and glucose for intravenous drip feeding and a sedative that would put him out long enough to do the work required on his leg, but major abdominal surgery was a whole different ball game.

Of course she had the necessary machinery to dispense anaesthesia but she couldn't operate that and wield a scalpel at the same time.

She could not believe that she was standing here in the rain and mud even contemplating attempting such surgery.

But then again if he did have a serious internal injury ….

What choice would she have?

Without surgery to stem the internal bleeding ….

He was a dead man.

A knot of fear tightened in her stomach and her throat began to close, making it hard to breathe as the anxiety began to flood through her again, but she knew that she could not let it beat her.

What choice did she have?

If she tried her best and the guy died, at least she would know that she had done all that was humanly possible for him.

But if she didn't even try ….

She wouldn't be able to live with herself.

Knowing that she had allowed her fears and her weakness to come between herself and saving a man's life.

_**That was not going to happen.**_

She would do her damnedest to save this man.

Because she could do nothing less.

"Hang in there buddy," she reached out and gently pushed away a lock of sweat dampened hair which had fallen onto his brow. "I'll do all that I can to help you, but you have to try to help yourself too. Help me by fighting and hanging in there. Please don't give up …."

He let out a deep moan in response and she withdrew her fingers from his brow as though she had been burned.

He moaned again and she could just make out in the dim light that his lovely long eye lashes were fluttering weakly, as though he were trying to open his eyes.

"It's okay," Fiona leaned in close into his ear and reassured in a soft low voice, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I don't know if you can understand me, but you've been in an accident. I'm a doctor and I am going to do my best to help you," she advised him softly.

She had always been a believer in telling her patients what she was going to do, even the unconscious ones, in the belief that something in her voice might touch their frozen minds and allay their fears.

He moved jerkily, obviously trying to get out of his seat, but she applied gentle pressure against his shoulder and forced him back down.

"Take it easy buddy. You're pretty banged up …."

_**Not wanting to get too technical …. **_

That was an understatement she thought wryly and noted the grimace on his face.

Obviously he thought so too.

"Can you look at me?"

He made an obvious effort and at last his eyes opened, revealing beautiful baby blue irises and hugely dilated pupils, which Fiona was pleased to see reacted normally, contracting as a sudden flash of lightening briefly illuminated the sky over head.

He peered myopically at her as she moved a finger in front of his eyes, and it was clear to her that his vision was far from clear as he continued to have trouble focusing.

In the end the effort was too much and his eyes fluttered closed once more.

"Still with me, buddy?" He let out a soft groan in response and Fiona was heartened by his response.

Obviously his level of consciousness had improved.

For now at least.

Who knew what would happen when they had to move him.

That would depend on his pain threshold.

"Great. I'm Fiona Cromwell. I know you're in a great deal of pain …. And I'll do what I can to help you with that, but first I have to know, do you have any allergies to medicines, like antibiotics? Have you ever had surgery and had a bad reaction to the sedation? Are you are taking any medication right now?"

He made a slurred sound and moved his head slowly in a gesture that she interpreted as a no.

It made sense.

He would have to be in pretty good general health to keep a valid pilots licence.

Unless he was flying without a pilots licence ….

"Okay. You ever been given Morphine?"

Again he made a sound that she interpreted, along with the slight movement of his head, as a yes.

"Did you have any problems with it?"

_**Great bedside manner Doc …. **_

It was the most tactful way she could think of to ask if he had gotten hooked.

It happened sometimes, no matter how careful doctors were in prescribing the dose for each patient. If the injury was extreme and the patient needed the pain relief long term ….

Some people were more susceptible than others to addiction, even under strictly controlled conditions.

If he had been given Morphine before it stood a chance that he had either been involved in a serious accident in the past, or ….

Maybe he had seen action, and been a casualty in 'Nam ….

He looked to be about the right age.

Early to mid thirties, she guessed.

He shook his head no in reply to her question and tried again to get out of his seat.

"Hey, I said take it easy. I think you have concussion and a couple of cracked ribs," she explained, applying more pressure to his shoulder with the heel of her hand. "I know it's uncomfortable for you, but I promise it won't be much longer. Help is on the way," she reassured.

"Were you in Vietnam, buddy?" He gave another jerky nod and again she stilled him with gentle pressure to his shoulder. "Okay Soldier, then you understand about obeying orders. Stay still. _**That's**_ an order …."

She could feel the tension in his upper body as he resisted, but then he let out a long slow, rattling breath and all the tension went out of his muscles and he settled back into his chair quietly.

"Thanks. That's better," she smiled down at him in relief, but his eyes were closed again and he could not see her face.

"I know you want to get out of here. So do I, but we have to wait for help to arrive. When we do move you I can give you a shot for the pain, but I guess you know it is still going to hurt like the devil …. "

He let out a long deep groan which she had no trouble understanding and she patted his shoulder reassuringly.

"I know, buddy. We'll do our best to get it over with quickly. We're here to help you not hurt you," she assured. "You got a name, Soldier?"

Again his mouth worked on trying to produce a sound but all she could make out on his low, breathy, husky voice was what sounded like Hook.

His response pleased Fiona, for it meant that he was unlikely to be suffering from amnesia. No memory loss meant that the head injuries might not be as serious as she had first thought.

Maybe ….

His breath was now coming in slow ragged gasps and she could see the effort of trying to stay with her was becoming too much for him.

She wasn't through examining him though and needed him to be awake.

Fiona reached out and took his right hand because it was nearest to her. It was a nice hand, strong, work roughened and very tanned, but right now it was cold.

"Okay buddy, rest easy now," she spoke softly, gently squeezing his hand and watching his face for a reaction. "Do you feel that? Can you squeeze my hand?"

She couldn't be sure just how much of what she was saying he was actually taking in now but after only the slightest pause he applied firm pressure to her hand.

"Hey, that's quite a grip you got there," she chuckled. "Want to try the other hand? Been a while since I held hands with a handsome young man."

She gently placed his right hand in his lap and reached out to take a gentle hold on his left hand, the sleeve of his flight jacket and shirt riding up as she drew it toward her, to reveal a very smart watch, which to her amazement, read, four minutes to four in the afternoon ….

_**My God, where had the last hour gone ….**_

_**It only seemed like minutes since she had seen the chopper falling to earth ….**_

She squeezed his left hand with similar pressure as before. He returned it with the same kind of pressure as on the other side and Fiona found herself smiling, elated.

He had feeling in his hands, which was a good sign that he had not damaged his spinal cord.

"Great. Not such a bad first date after all," she chuckled softly. She tried to pull her hand away but he would not let it go.

His grip was firm but not painful.

She understood his need to feel close to another human being.

It was the most natural thing in his situation.

Fiona knew that he was aware of just how seriously he was injured, and he did not want to die alone …. Needed to feel close to someone ….

Needed to hold on to someone.

At that moment, she felt a strong desire to gather him up into her arms, cradle his broken body against her own and just hold on to him, until the warmth of her body seeped through his clothes and warmed his body, driving away the chill and the pain ….

And the fear ….

But she could not do any such thing.

For one thing it was totally unprofessional ….

So she did the only thing she could do, to try to connect with him.

"It's gonna be alright," she assured, stroking his forehead with the other hand and squeezing the hand holding hers gently in return. Yet even as she spoke the words she knew that she could not be absolutely sure of the outcome.

His injuries were severe and would stretch her abilities and resources to their limits, and there were no guarantees.

That he wouldn't lose that leg.

That he would pull through at all, if he had a major internal bleed ….

But she would do whatever it took to make sure that he had a fighting chance.

His eyes fluttered open and after blinking rapidly a few times, tried to focus on her face. His beautiful blue eyes filled with tears which he blinked away quickly and tried again to focus on her face.

_**Everything was pain.**_

_**His whole body was one huge block of pain.**_

_**Even his blessed eyelashes hurt ...**_

And it didn't help that he was completely disorientated, no concept of which way was up or down ….

No point of reference, because he could not get his damned eyes to stay open and focus on something solid.

And he desperately wanted to focus on _**something**_ to take his mind off just how awful he felt.

At first her soft voice had been enough.

Pulling him up through, the darkness.

She had such a nice voice, melodic and throbbing with genuine concern ….

And he had recognised and appreciated her attempts at humour ….

But as consciousness returned, her voice alone was no longer enough.

Every breath was torture, a fire burning in his chest.

His leg was one mass of hot, excruciating pain.

And then her soft, small, warm hand had been just the lifeline that he had needed to hold on to.

"Hi, again," Fiona smiled softly at him when his eyes finally stilled and fixed on one point, her nose, and then he blinked once more.

"Fee," he gasped, finding her face, a pale blob in an otherwise dark picture. He could not make out her features, but didn't care at that moment. He had something else to focus on.

"Yeah. Fiona or Fee is fine."

The smile grew wider, revealing small straight white teeth.

"Hook?"

"Hawke," he spoke slowly, forcing his numb mouth to form the word.

"Like the bird? Well howdy, Hawke," she squeezed his hand gently and he returned that squeeze firmly. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Lightening …. Got …. The …. Tail …. Rotor …." He managed to gasp out. "Fried …. Everything …." He explained and Fiona realised that that meant that he probably hadn't been able to send out a Mayday.

He had been damned lucky that she just happened to be where she was and saw that the chopper was in trouble, else no one would have known that he was out here.

"Cold," he mumbled through clenched, chattering teeth and she could feel his body shivering beneath her hand now.

He was well insulated against the weather in a heavy dark brown leather flying jacket and a dark plaid shirt under it, and her body was also protecting him from the worst of the wind and the rain, acting as a buffer.

Fiona laid the back of her other hand gently against his brow and felt the heat radiating off him. He may feel like he was cold but he was actually burning up.

"Hawke, were you sick before the accident?" She asked, businesslike again, voice filled with concern, anxious that he was going into shock. "Were you feeling off colour?"

"Mmmmm," he mumbled. "Flu …."

"Fever, headache, sore throat, upset stomach?" She guessed.

"Mmmmm," he confirmed, fighting to concentrate on keeping her face in focus, despite the fact that everything else was swimming alarmingly before his eyes. "Cold," he reminded her.

"I know. Are there any blankets stowed in this tin can?" He shook his head, carefully, no. "Sorry," she didn't have anything with her either.

Her raincoat was soaking wet and covered in vomit and mud, so that wasn't much use to either of them.

"The guys will have plenty of blankets when they get here. Not long now," she reassured although she could not help wondering what was taking them so long.

Surely they had been able to release some volunteers from the car wreck on Pine Ridge Road by now?

She recalled that she had a rug in the back of the Jeep, which she used for picnics in the woods on her days off, but she really did not want to leave him while she trudged back to get it.

Although, if the rescue party didn't arrive shortly, she was going to have to go back to the Jeep to radio in.

"Hold …. me …." He mumbled through chattering teeth.

"What?" She demanded with a frown. His request surprised her.

"Hold …. me …." He repeated, expression serious, gaze steadier than it had thus far been as he looked into her pretty face.

"You propositioning me, Soldier?" Fiona grinned shyly. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the gloom, she could see what a handsome fellow he was, rugged, chiselled features with a strong, square jaw ….

And she was only human after all ….

_**No harm in looking ….**_

It had been a long time since she had allowed herself to feel any kind of interest in the opposite sex ….

Out here in the wilderness, her choices were somewhat limited. She wasn't exactly beating them off with a stick.

Even if she had been interested in starting a relationship. Which she was not ….

"No …. Don't wanna …. Get too close …. To me …. Jinxed …." He choked out and Fiona frowned, wondering what he was talking about. "Do …. I …. Look …. Like …. A …. Guy …. Who …. Has …. Good …. Luck …."

_**Was he delirious now as well? **_

"Guess that would kinda depend on if you actually believe in good luck and bad luck," Fiona reasoned.

"I …. Meant …. We …. Should …. Keep …. Each …. Other …. Warm …." He clarified sheepishly then.

"Ohhhh …. Shucks …. Thought I'd gotten lucky for a minute," she chuckled.

"Maybe …. Another …. Time …." He gasped out having realised that he had maybe said too much.

She was only joking.

Trying to keep him positive and upbeat ….

_**Alive ….**_

"I'll hold you to that, Soldier …."

She had to admit that she was feeling pretty soggy and cold and weary herself.

The clothes that she was wearing were pretty thin, a white cotton blouse and thin pastel blue summer skirt, and they were soaked through, plastered to her body where the biting wind and rain buffeted against her back, positioned as she was, head and shoulders inside and lower back and bare legs outside of the cockpit, exposed to the full fury of the storm.

What he was proposing, she realised, was that they share body heat to fend off hyperthermia, and as far as she could see, there was nothing unprofessional or unethical in that.

Indeed, it made sense.

"Okay," She sighed resignedly. "Just for a minute …."

Feeling slightly shy and more than a little awkward, Fiona leaned closer to him and carefully released his hand and slid her free arm around his shoulders, drawing his firm upper body closer to the warmth and comfort of her own, cupping the back of his head with her right hand and gently drawing him forward, trying to support his neck just in case he had damaged a vertebra, and guided him toward her shoulder until his chin rested against her shoulder bone and she could feel the soft intermittent warmth of his breath against her neck and ear.

He let out a soft sigh and relaxed against her, and for a moment she wondered if he had lost consciousness again but then she felt his body trembling slightly against her chest, the muscular firmness of his chest separated from crushing her breasts only by the thin fabric of her blouse and the leather of his flight jacket.

As she rested her chin against the cool, down softness of his hair, Fiona closed her eyes and held her breath ….

Taking in the fresh, clean, masculine scent of him. A Pine soap fragrance still lingered on his closely shaved chin and his hair had a hint of lemon ….

So long ….

It had been so long since she had been _**this**_ close to another human being ….

A man.

She hoped that her body would not betray her.

Or that he would not be able to recognise her body's instinctive reaction to his closeness. Perhaps he would simply think that it was her body reacting to the cold ….

"So …. How …. Am …. I …." He spoke slowly, words slurred and he gasped painfully between each word. "Honestly …."

"Honestly?" His chin wobbled against her shoulder blade and she realised that he was nodding.

"Am …. I …. Dying …."

"_**No dammit!**_ Not if I have anything to do with it!" She exclaimed, voice throbbing with intensity, until she caught herself and forced herself to reign in her emotions.

_**This wasn't like the last time..**_

_**He had a chance.**_

_**Not like poor Mitch ….**_

No, _**not**_ like Mitch at all.

She had to get her emotions under control ….

She had to pull herself together.

_**But it was so hard ….**_

_**Memories crowding in …. **_

_**Threatening to engulf her …. **_

_**Overwhelm her ….**_

Cradling him against her body …. Just as she had Mitch, all those years ago …..

She knew that this time it was different ….

That the man in her arms had a chance to survive ….

His injuries were not so devastating as Mitch's had been …. And this time, that chance was her.

Her skill. Her experience. And her desperate need to keep him alive.

Because if he died ….

As Mitch had died ….

Then she would be lost forever.

She took in two small calming breaths, feeling her heart racing in her chest and expelled them slowly until she felt calm and reason and professional detachment returning.

"Honestly?" She let out another deep sigh and knew that she could not lie to him. "I don't know. You have some …. injuries …. I have no idea just how bad they are. Won't know until we get you out of here and I can get a proper look," she explained softly. "Your leg is a mess, and you could have some serious internal injuries. I just don't know yet …."

"Leg?" He jerked sharply in her arms and instinctively she carefully tightened her embrace around him, wanting to support him, to reassure him, comfort him, but not damage him any further, knowing that even though his leg _**felt**_ bad, he was still shocked to hear her say it out loud.

"It's bad," she lifted her left hand to gently stroke the back of his head. "It's broken, in two places, and there are some damaged blood vessels …." She spoke softly, close to his ear, still gently stroking his hair.

"Will …. I …. Lose …. It …." He choked out, wondering why the gesture of her stroking his hair felt so familiar ….

And so …. comforting ….

"I really don't know yet," she drew back slightly from him, wanting to look him directly in the eye when she spoke again. "But I promise you, Hawke, I will do _**everything **_I can to try to save it."

"God's …. Honest …. Truth …." He slurred, eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to focus on her face again.

"God's honest truth,"

She felt tears sting her own eyes now and blinked them away furiously as she slid her arm around his shoulders once more and drew him close, not wanting him to see her moment of weakness.

"I wouldn't lie to you about something like that, Soldier," she allowed herself to increase the pressure of her embrace around his shoulders once more, for emphasis, just for a moment and then pulling herself together asked, "What rank were you in 'Nam?"

"Captain."

"I'm impressed."

She had known a lot of pilots over there, during the war but most of them had been about her own age, mid twenties.

Or Mitch's age. Early thirties.

_**The old guys as they had been called ….**_

He must have been very young when he enlisted.

Maybe one of the hundreds of thousands who had joined the army aged barely 19 years old.

Fiona had just turned twenty five years old when she had volunteered to go to Vietnam, having forced herself to wait until she had gained her medical degree, and had some experience to offer.

She had been shipped out right at the end of 1969, starting out with the rank of Lieutenant because she was only a junior doctor.

By the time it was all over, she had progressed through the ranks to Major and had been honourably discharged after the fall of Saigon in 1975, just before her thirty first birthday.

She had finished three full tours in various field hospitals in Asia, and in between, during her down time back home in the States, she had been posted to various VA Hospitals to finish her medical education. The military equivalent of a Residency, pursuing surgery and other disciplines like the rehabilitation of amputees, physical therapy and occupational therapy, the treatment of gunshot wounds and tropical diseases and even a cycle in Psychiatry ….

And finally, before returning for her last tour of duty, a stint with the MP's learning how to process crime scenes and conduct post mortem investigations into suspicious deaths.

There wasn't much that she didn't know about hands on battlefield medicine, but after the war, back home, that had suddenly not counted for much.

It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

And yet, just like yesterday.

But the reality was that she had been back Stateside and in civvies for more than nine years now.

And even now she could not block out the awful memories.

She had seen too much death and horror and learned first hand the evil that men can do to each other …. No matter which side they were fighting on.

Atrocities had been committed on both sides, and Fiona had borne witness to them in her capacity as a doctor, tending to the sick or investigating the crime scene, put in the position of having to speak for the dead.

It was war ….

It was Anarchy.

It was complete madness ….

And she was supposed to just forget all that she had seen and learned and return to her nice, safe, sanitary life. Slip back into her old life. Like nothing had happened.

_**Not a chance ….**_

The things that she had seen and done had touched her in such a way that the girl she had been when she had left the States, innocent, idealistic and full of hope and optimism, no longer existed.

If she was honest she would have to say that she had not really integrated back into civilian life …. And professionally, her career had stalled.

Instead of being an asset, the time she had served in 'Nam and all that she had learned there seemed only to hold her back.

Instead of respecting her for the work she had done out there, her colleagues seemed to regard her with contempt.

Even the army didn't want her any more.

She had experience and talent and more qualifications than she could shake a stick at, but, she was a woman, in a male dominated profession and she did not have the connections in the old boys' network to get higher up the ladder.

So she had finally taken matters into her own hands.

Now she was her own boss, answering only to her self as far as the practice was concerned, and the city elders of Pine Valley were pussy cats compared to the fat cats she had had to deal with in the city.

"Forgive me for not saluting, but I do rather have my hands full. Where were you stationed?"

"All …. Over …." He gasped out. "Got …. Moved …. About …. A …. Lot …. Different …. Bases …. On …. Each …. Tour …."

"Saigon?"

"Mmmmmmm,"

"Were you there when it fell?"

She found herself wondering if unknowingly they had been on the same transport out of that hell hole, but he gently shook his head.

"Home …. By …. Then …. Got …. My ….. Butt ….. Shot …. Off …." He paused, dragging in small staccato, ragged breaths which suddenly turned into a full blown coughing fit and Fiona instinctively tightened her embrace around his shaking body to try to support his chest, those suspected cracked ribs …..

"Okay. Okay. Easy," she soothed. "I've got ya," she reassured. "How many tours did you do?" She asked, trying to take his mind off the coughing.

"Three," he choked out.

"Tough guy," she nearly added 'me too' but then thought better of it.

"You …. Were …. There …. Too …." He said at last, when the coughing had stopped and he had drawn in several ragged breaths.

It was a statement Fiona realised, not a question.

Something in her voice must have betrayed her.

"Yeah, Soldier, I was there. Army Medical Corp."

"Rank?"

"Major."

"Then …. _**I **_…. Should …. Salute …. _**You**_ …."

"I'll take a rain check," she chuckled, then grew solemn. "I know what our boys went through out there. I know that there is nothing more important to a Soldier than having reliable Intel …. And that is why I _**won't**_ lie to you about your condition. "

"Thanks …."

"Warmer now?"

She decided to change the subject. She still had a hard time talking about that part of her past.

"Mmmmmm."

"Then I should go look for that rescue party. I have a radio in my Jeep."

"No …. Don't …. Leave …. Me …." He implored. "Please …. You're …. My …. Good ….. Luck …. Charm …. Now …."

Fiona knew what he was saying.

She knew it all too clearly because she had heard it time after time in Vietnam, from young Soldiers who, having just barely got to know her, feared that should she leave their side, they would die.

Alone.

But with her there, how could they die?

She would not _**let**_ them die, would she?

"It'll be alright, Hawke," she assured, trying to draw away from him, but his chin was heavy against her shoulder and he made no effort to try to sit up straight.

"The Jeep isn't far. I won't be long, but I have to know how long they are going to be."

"Doesn't …. Matter …. Gonna …. Die …. Here …."

"Dammit, you are _**not**_ going to die!" She shrieked above the howling gale. "You are not going to die! Don't you _**dare**_ give up on me Hawke! You are going to come through this …."

"Liar," he choked out.

"Don't ever let me hear you say that again," she warned in a low voice, pulling roughly away from him and easing him back into his seat.

"I told you I won't lie to you and I meant it," she suddenly felt her heart skip a beat, shocked to see fresh blood trickling from the side of his mouth.

_**Dammit ….**_

_**Those ribs …. The coughing fit ….**_

_**Oh God ….**_

_**He probably had a punctured lung ….**_

_**Where the hell are the rescue team!**_

Her anger was a glorious thing to behold, Hawke thought to himself, now that his eyes had stopped filling with tears and he could focus a little better.

Her deep green eyes were flashing sparks of gold at him and her alabaster cheeks were colouring up in a most becoming fashion.

If she were destined to be the last thing he saw in this life, he found himself thinking that it was a beautiful sight.

She was feisty and alive and full of compassion and affection and empathy ….

If he was going to die, then he was suddenly glad that her pale heart shaped face, framed by a soft cap of dripping wet chestnut brown hair, wearing an earnest expression that told him all too clearly just how badly she wanted to slap his face at that moment, would be the image he carried with into the unknown ….

That …. Her smile …. And the sensation of her loving arms around him ….

She cared ….

She didn't know him from Adam ….

But she cared ….

_**She really cared ….**_

And he_** felt **_it ….

"You _**have**_ to believe it, Hawke," she glared at him. "I _**need**_ you to believe it. Medically, I can only do so much, but _**you**_ can make a difference, by believing, by holding on to life and fighting to the very end," her voice was throbbing with passion as she finished.

"_**I**_ won't give up …. And _**you**_ mustn't either. A patient's state of mind can play a big part in their recovery, and I've had good reason to learn that faith, especially in ones self, is a very powerful thing. Trust me," she implored.

"Cute," he gasped, pulling a face at the slightly metallic taste in his mouth now.

_**Was that blood?**_

"What?" She snapped, her expression puzzled and incredulous, unsure if she had heard him correctly, his voice was so low and weak between gasps for breath.

"You're …. Cute …. When …. Your …. Riled …." He tried to smile, but even his cheek muscles were sore.

At that moment Fiona did not know whether to laugh or cry.

To slap him ….

Or kiss him ….


	6. Chapter 6

"Doc Cromwell …

"_**Doc Cromwell …. Hey, Doc is that you?"**_

A deep male voice suddenly rang out from across the clearing and Fiona quickly pulled out of the cockpit of the helicopter, almost banging her head against the door frame as she did so, and peered across the clearing through the deluge of rain, to find a group of men coming toward her.

They were waving strong flashlights before them and wearing fluorescent yellow wax jackets, carrying boxes of medical equipment and supplies and the neck braces and spinal boards she had requested.

There were six of them altogether, four volunteer paramedics and bringing up the rear of the group, two volunteer fire fighters carrying the cutting equipment she had suggested they bring along.

Fiona had never been more relieved to see anyone in her life and she was grinning broadly as she ducked back into the cockpit.

"The cavalry just arrived."

"'Bout …. time …."

"You just sit still and relax and let us do all the work. It won't be long now," she reached down and took his right hand once more, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I have to go talk to the guys, try to figure out where we start, but I'll be back. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good man."

A final squeeze of his hand and then she ducked back out into the pouring rain to talk to a man she recognised as Steve Bailey, High School Football Coach during the day but Chief Paramedic volunteer on nights like this one. He was joined by his partner, Trevor Munroe and Tony Gardner and Bill Trueman two other members of the volunteer rescue service and the two fire fighters Gerry Fox and George Marsden.

Fiona had worked with all of them in the past, on real call outs and training exercises and she liked and trusted all of them.

Hawke was going to be in good hands.

"Hi Doc, do we got a live one?"

Fiona recognised the look of anticipation on the man's handsome face. He had obviously just come from the Pine Ridge Road incident where his life savings skills had been redundant. He really needed to know that he hadn't just made another wasted journey.

"We sure do, Steve," Fiona grinned, her whole body flooding with relief. "The patient was initially unconscious, but is now conscious and lucid, although he has been drifting in and out …."

She began to explain the situation to the paramedic, going through the list of injuries she suspected and watched him nod sagely.

"Does anyone have the time?" She enquired anxiously.

One of these days she was going to have to invest in a new watch ….

When she had been in the military, time had ruled her life, but out here, time had a completely different meaning to people. Eat when you're hungry, get up with the sun and go to bed when you're tired.

Pretty soon she had discarded her wristwatch. It had been the only way to keep her sanity.

Trains and planes ran to timetables, but her patients didn't.

And neither did the town of Pine Valley.

"It's almost a quarter of five, doc …." Someone shouted back to her over an ominously loud clap of thunder.

"He's already been trapped in there for almost two hours," Fiona sighed heavily. "If we don't get him out soon, I don't like his chances …."

Whilst they spoke about the patient's condition, the two fire fighters and the other volunteers checked out the helicopter cockpit, trying to decide where to begin to use the cutting equipment to get the casualty out.

Pretty soon they had come up with a plan.

They laid out a waxed ground sheet close to the helicopter and set up a spinal board ready to receive the casualty and Fiona checked the supplies in the boxes of medical equipment that Steve Bailey and his partner Trevor Munroe had brought with them from the ambulance, then returned to her patient to explain what they were going to do.

"Terrific," Hawke gasped breathlessly when Fiona ducked back into the cockpit to check on her patient and explained what that they were going to have to do to get him out.

"What? You were planning to wear this thing for the rest of your life?" Fiona joked, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "It's not the hottest thing in fashion accessories I've ever seen …."

However, he looked genuinely distressed and she wondered if he was thinking about the future ….

Maybe he didn't have insurance? Or maybe his insurance would not fully cover the cost of buying a new chopper?

"Hawke, take a good look around you. This thing is wrecked. The only thing it's good for is scrap. Besides, I'm sure I can find you something a little more fetching to wear back at my clinic. Probably gape at the ass, but I'm sure I'll come to look upon that as a bonus, not something to complain about!"

She flushed very becomingly, but he still looked devastated.

"Hawke, your life is more important than your helicopter," she told him softly.

"Not mine," he explained, suddenly recalling Dominic Santini's words about crashing his helicopter.

Was that really only a few hours ago?

_**Many a true word spoken in jest Dom ….**_ Hawke thought ironically.

"She …. Belongs ….. To …. A ….. Friend …." He explained between painful gasps for breath.

"Must be a very good friend," she reasoned. "To let you borrow his chopper …."

"Mmmmmm," he nodded weakly.

He was getting tired now, and Fiona could see his strength ebbing away.

She could see him losing the battle to stay awake.

That was not a good sign.

They had to get him out of there. Right now.

"Then I am sure that it will be a relief for him to know that you are alive," she said sagely.

"Mmmmm," Hawke acknowledged softly. He knew that she was right.

Dominic would rather lose his whole business than lose one hair off of his young friend's head, but that didn't make Hawke feel any better about what had happened.

"Choppers can be replaced, Hawke. Good friends can't."

"Okay, Doc. I think we're about ready …." This came from Steve Bailey now.

He and the rest of the team had cleared a path around to the other side of the helicopter and he was peering in at her and Hawke from the other door now.

Fiona gave Steve Bailey an urgent thumbs up.

"Well, here goes."

"You …. Be …. Careful …." Hawke said as she began to withdraw from the cockpit once more.

Fiona stopped, genuinely touched by his concern for her wellbeing, despite the uncertainty of his own situation.

"We're in this _**together**_, Hawke, and we'll _**both **_be just fine," she assured, patting his hand once more.

"Won't be long. Don't go away now …."

"Funny …. Lady …."

Outside, the storm had hardly baited as Fiona Cromwell joined the rest of the rescue team, buffeted by strong gusts of wind and torrential rain and a shiver ran down her spine.

Now that the rescue party had arrived, her adrenalin levels were dropping and she was beginning to feel weak and a little light headed, as well as cold to the bone. Her arms and legs were already beginning to shake with fatigue, the long hours spent delivering the Preston baby, with nothing but strong black coffee for sustenance beginning to tell.

"You okay Doc?" Trevor Munroe asked as she almost tripped over a tree root, his strong arms instinctively reaching out to catch her. "You're half drowned. I'll get you a jacket," he offered.

"Later,Trevor. Won't make much difference now," she smiled her gratitude for his thoughtfulness, but she knew from experience that the jackets could be bulky and cumbersome and she would need to be able to move freely in the cramped space inside the helicopter.

Also she was impatient to get on with getting her patient out of the helicopter.

"We ready guys?"

"When you are Doc …."

The plan was that they would approach the casualty from the other side of the helicopter, use the metal cutting tool to remove the other door so that Fiona could get in beside Hawke. She would cover him with a blanket and protect him from any sparks or falling debris while they cut away most of the front of the cockpit to release his legs.

Then, after she had made a more in depth examination of his legs and administered pain medication, she would sit with him, fit the neck brace and restraining straps to his chest and hold his hand, reassure him, distract him as best she could to make sure that he did not try to move, and try to absorb some of the vibration as they cut through the struts holding his chair to the floor of the cockpit, hoping that they would then be able to bodily lift the chair clear of the wreckage.

They had all decided that it was the only way they could get him out without the risk of causing further injury to his neck and spine.

Once they had the chair out in the open they would then be able to control the transfer to the spinal board.

Fiona would then be able to more thoroughly examine his legs. She would administer more pain relief if required, get him onto oxygen and make sure that his vital signs did not fall off, and then she would guide the men as they slowly and gently moved him, millimetre by painful millimetre onto the spinal board.

That done, Fiona would put an IV needle into the back of his hand and attach a bag of IV fluid while Steve or Trevor put his broken leg into an inflatable leg splint, and then they would be ready to carry him back to the ambulance that Bailey had parked further down the trail.

It sounded just fine to Fiona, but obviously Hawke was distressed about the destruction of the helicopter.

Still, there was no other way.

It had to be done.

There was no more time to be wasted.

She feared that Hawke was already slipping away from her.

"Right, let's make a start."

In an instant Gerry Fox, the lead fire fighter had the huge pincers of the bolt cutter type tool working on the door and less than a minute later he and George Marsden were pulling the door out of the frame while Bailey and Munroe shielded her from any flying glass …. And then Fiona was scrambling in beside Hawke.

"The blanket you requested, Captain," she quipped, draping a rough woollen grey blanket over his body as she knelt up awkwardly in the seat beside him. "Sorry about the service. Just so hard to get good help around here. Okay Hawke, now you know what's going to happen …."

"Just …. Get …. On …. With …. It …." This was issued through clenched teeth now.

"Your wish is my command."

She reached behind her and Steve Bailey handed her another blanket, and then leaning gently over Hawke, Fiona held it up to cover his face and head and then gave the nod to Bailey and company to begin the rescue operation.

The noise was horrendous and the vibration jolted through her body, setting her teeth on edge. Fiona leaned over Hawke as much as she dare, careful to keep her weight off his damaged chest, trying to absorb the vibration as she heard Hawke's cries from beneath the blanket.

She tried to sooth him, but knew that he could not hear her over the noise of the storm, the rending of metal, and his own screams of agony, so she did the only thing that she could, she held on and willed Bailey and the others to finish the job quickly.

Her wish was answered when most of Hawke's side of the front window and control panel buckled and was suddenly peeled away and the rain poured in unchecked, soaking her all over again.

In next to no time at all the control panel, the pedals and the stick were gone and Fiona was able to get down on to what was left of the cockpit floor and get a closer look at his damaged leg in the powerful torch light provided by Trevor Munroe.

Fiona's heart sank.

It didn't look good.

She adjusted the tourniquet, blood still oozing slowly out of the gaping wounds, probably the reason why he was fading fast. His life force seeping out of him, with every beat of his heart.

His face was ashen and pinched with pain when she pulled the blanket off him and his eyes were closed. Instinctively she reached out and checked his pulse. It was weaker than before and more thready.

Not an encouraging sign.

She had to work faster now.

Bailey and Munroe already had the neck brace ready to pass down to her and an ampoule of Morphine and a hypodermic syringe which she took from them swiftly, drawing out the smallest dose she thought he could tolerate but which would also take the edge off the pain while they moved him.

She needed him to be at least semi conscious when they got him back to the ambulance so that she could monitor his condition but she wanted to give him enough of the drug to spare him the worst of the pain as they moved him.

Making a small tear in the cloth of his jeans with a scalpel, she jabbed the needle into the solid muscle at the top of his thigh and gently massaged the area with her fingers to disperse the drug into his blood stream.

She watched his face closely for a moment.

She would know when the drug was beginning to work for the pained expression on his face would relax, just a little.

"Okay, time to get you moving, Soldier, "she watched him trying to fight against slipping back into unconsciousness and took his hand in hers once more.

"Can't …. Breathe …." He choked out.

"Relax Hawke. Let the drug do it's job."

"Can't …. Breathe …."

"I know …. I know …. It's alright, Soldier. Just relax," she held his hand tightly, willing him to believe her, to trust her, to focus on her. "Let the drug take effect."

He squeezed her hand back, his grip so hard she thought for a moment that he was going to break every bone in her hand, as he struggled for every breath, blue eyes big and wide and full of panic as no matter how hard he tried, little air found its way into his lungs.

_**Was this how it felt to drown?**_ Hawke thought frantically.

"Fee …."

There was something so desperate and so anguished in the look he gave her, she knew that he believed that he was dying.

"Look at me. Focus on me," Fiona smiled reassuringly, stroking the back of his hand rhythmically, hoping that her calm professional demeanour would reassure him.

He did as she asked, but the fear and panic she saw in his lovely eyes was almost more than Fiona could bear.

"Okay Hawke, try this ….. breathe in slowly through your mouth …." She demonstrated for him, the purpose merely to stop him from panicking and to focus on something other than the suffocating feeling in his chest.

"And breathe out slowly through your nose," she advised, demonstrating again, breathing along with him, in and out, until he got into a gentle rhythm, nodding encouragement as his blue eyes remained fixed on her face.

Gradually his heaving chest began to move more slowly and his eyelids began to flutter.

It seemed like forever to both of them, but it had been less than a minute since she had administered the drug.

"I'm right here, Hawke. You'll be fine. Just fine. Remember, you're not alone."

Fiona knew that she was talking to herself when his grip on her hand suddenly relaxed and his head rolled limply to one side, his dark, rugged features less pinched with pain.

The drug was working.

And they would have to get moving.

Its miraculous effects would not last forever and she wanted to get him out of here and into the ambulance before the drug began to wear off.

"Okay guys, let's get moving."

Fighting the sudden compulsion to caress his rugged cheek with her fingers, Fiona called out to Bailey and company.

"We don't have much time!"

They worked swiftly as a team, fitting the neck brace securely, once Fiona had made sure that Hawke's head was in the correct position, and then she slipped a clear plastic face mask over his nose and mouth and set the gauge on the small bottle of oxygen to a constant flow.

Next was the hardest part of the rescue, getting the seat out of the wreckage without tipping the patient out of it and then they had to lift him slowly and carefully from a sitting position to a flat position on the spinal board.

Fiona secured Hawke's upper body to the chair with a restraining strap and his head to the head rest, but she first had to wait for George Marsden to start up the cutting gear again to peel away part of the roof and make room behind Hawke's chair so that she could position herself behind him and hold on to his head gently while the men manoeuvred the chair out of the helicopter.

The space was small and she was cramped, slightly hunched over, her back and arms aching with the effort to keep his head and neck from moving as the chair wobbled precariously, until Bill Trueman, one of the other medical volunteers took over from her.

With one last concerted effort they heaved the chair and it's passenger out of the wreckage and handled it very carefully, carrying it to set it down on the waxed ground sheet.

"Careful, Doc," Trevor Munroe advised as he offered her his hand to help her out of the jagged wreckage.

"Thanks Trevor. Now I know how a sardine feels …."

Steve Bailey was waiting to drape a fluorescent jacket around her shoulders as she emerged from the wreckage and she shrugged into it gratefully, wrapping it around her shivering body.

"Here," he produced a small thermos flask and thrust the small cup off the top of it, full of steaming coffee at her. "Drink it Doc …. Don't argue with me …." He advised in his sternest voice. "Need to get you warmed up. You've been out here, exposed to this weather for too long," he reminded. "Go on, don't glare at it. Drink it!" He snarled at her. "And eat this …." He handed her a quarter of a bar of chocolate. "You can't keep going on adrenaline forever, Doc. Need to get your blood sugar up too. This weather, shock …. Don't want you fainting away on us now, do we …."

"Okay. Okay."

Smothering a smile, she sipped the coffee and pushed a couple of squares of the chocolate into her mouth, realising that Bailey was right, and that he was only doing his job, making sure that she was fit to continue with the rescue.

But she really didn't have time for this.

She didn't have time to stand around getting warm. There was still work to be done.

However, Steve Bailey stood over her until she finished the coffee and he was satisfied that she was fit to continue.

"Better?"

"Thanks Steve," Fiona had to admit that she was a little warmer and she didn't feel quite so weak in the knees now.

"Just lookin' out for ya, Doc," he grinned.

"I appreciate it."

"Okay people, lets get on with this …."

Fiona supervised Bailey as he set about organising the men as they prepared to lift Hawke out of his seat and transfer him to the spinal board.

Fiona watched them closely, making sure that they supported every part of her patient's body and then all lifted as one and carefully lowered him down onto the spinal board.

While Bailey carefully slipped the broken leg into the inflatable splint, and Gerry Fox secured the restraining straps across Hawke's forehead, waist and knees, Fiona busied herself with inserting the IV needle into a vein in the back of Hawke's left hand, securing it with sticking plaster and hooking up a bag of glucose and saline solution, which Trevor Munroe held aloft while she fished out a vial of antibiotic from her bag, drew out a good strong dose and pushed it through the IV with the other fluids.

Throughout all this, Hawke did not stir, even when, very carefully, Fiona pulled down the zipper of his flight jacket and eased open the buttons of his plaid shirt, so that she could gently run her hands over his torso once more to check if she could feel broken ribs and then took his vital signs once more.

She did not like what she found.

His temperature had gone up and his blood pressure had dropped even more and when she listened to his chest she could barely make out any breath sounds.

His condition was critical.

She needed to get him to the ambulance where she could hook him up to a cardiac monitor ….

"Okay guys. Great work. Now let's get him out of here. Trevor, I need to ride with him, okay?"

Trevor Munroe would normally stay in the back of the ambulance alone, with the patient, while Steve Bailey drove them to the hospital or clinic, but Fiona was so concerned that her patient might deteriorate that she felt that she should remain with him.

"Sure thing, Doc. You're welcome to ride with me any time," Trevor grinned and Fiona rolled her eyes heavenward in exasperation.

He had a reputation for being something of a joker, although some of his jokes fell a little wide of the mark.

He was harmless, Fiona knew, but more to the point, she knew that she could rely on him to back her up in a medical crisis.

He too had been in the Army Medical Corp in Vietnam. Not a qualified medic but a grunt trained to administer first aid and drugs on the battlefield, which he had been called upon to do under fire, many times.

However, if the patient went into shock, or arrested on the journey back to town, Trevor did not have the medical knowledge or the training to do CPR.

"Would someone mind driving my Jeep back?"

"Be my pleasure, Doc." This came from Tony Gardner.

"Thanks Tony. Keys are still in it. Come on then guys, let's get moving. I don't suppose there's any chance of getting us safely to Oak Valley Memorial is there?" She asked as Marsden, Fox, Gardner and Trueman took up their positions ready to lift the spinal board, but she knew in her heart that it was highly unlikely.

"In this weather? Forget about it Doc. Roads were washed out after the first ten minutes of this storm."

"Okay …. So I guess it has to be the clinic then," she sighed deeply.

The patient needed multiple X-rays and surgery on that leg ….

And quite possibly surgery on internal injuries too ….

And she would be hard pressed to carry out either procedure in her tiny clinic, but it was better than nothing.

"I already asked Mona to call Sheila Clay to ask her to come to the clinic and to bring her boys with her," Steve Bailey advised as they began the short march through the rough undergrowth and mud to the Jeep and the ambulance.

Sheila was the nurse who worked for Fiona at the clinic. She had only the basic qualifications but she was neat and professional and she cared about the people she was nursing.

Her duties were mostly those of a receptionist, meeting and greeting patients and putting them at their ease, and making appointments and keeping the records up to date, but she was qualified to administer drugs and knew how to sterilise instruments and keep the exam rooms clean and sterile.

Her twin teenage sons, Ryan and Kyle, both strapping lads, often helped out as orderlies, lifting patients in and out of their beds when necessary.

Right now, Fiona had to admit to herself, any help was better than none at all. Sheila would be another willing pair of hands who wouldn't need to be told twice what was required and the boys would be able to help move the injured man around.

"Good thinking, Steve. Thanks," Fiona replied weakly, almost stumbling. She was so cold she could not feel her feet.

"Take it easy Doc," Steve Bailey instinctively reached out to catch her and she smiled her thanks.

"I'm alright, Steve. Let's just get out of this weather, okay? Did they finish up at the RTA?"

"Yeah," his expression spoke volumes about what the emergency services had been confronted with at the scene of the traffic accident on Pine Ridge Road.

"A couple of kids and a couple of six packs," he let out a deep sigh and Fiona could not help wondering if they were kids he had taught at the High School.

Drunk drivers hadn't been a huge problem in Pine Valley, until recently.

There had been a spate of young men drinking while they drove around in their high powered, souped up old wrecks, and inevitably they had driven off the mountain, collided with trees, other cars …. each other.

Six young men and four girls had died in alcohol related traffic incidents in the last six months, and Dan McEwan was beside himself, not really knowing what he could do to stop the epidemic.

"Chief McEwan told us to leave a guy behind so that the Police Department could locate the crash site and seal it off. Wouldn't want any sight seers getting themselves tangled up or helping themselves to this guy's belongings …."

"Okay. Looks like Gerry's drawn the short straw …."

"He's okay. He's tough as old boots," Steve Bailey grinned as Gerry Fox nodded in understanding and releasing his hold on the stretcher, returned to the wreckage of the helicopter. "You look dead beat, Doc …."

"I was up all night with the Prestons. Carrie had her baby this afternoon, but it was a long and complicated labour."

"So this is your second 'delivery' today!" Trevor Monroe quipped, grinning broadly but his joke was lost on his companions, who groaned miserably.

"I know you're worried about this guy, Doc, but you need to take care of yourself first. You won't be much help to him if you come down with pneumonia."

"Thanks Steve, I'll bear that in mind," she smiled weakly.

"I'll check you over when we get back to the rig," Trevor Monroe offered.

"That won't be necessary," she tried to protest, but he looked doubtful. "I'm okay now," she insisted. "Besides which, he'll keep us all more than occupied on the ride back to town …."

Thankfully they were coming to an area where the going was much easier and presently Fiona could make out the lights from her Jeep, barely penetrating the gloom around them, but a welcome sight nonetheless.

Bailey had parked the ambulance just a little ways further back down the trail where the road surface was not quite so slick and in less than five minutes Fiona and her patient were safely ensconced in the back of the ambulance with Trevor Monroe and Steve Bailey was carefully picking his way around roots and potholes and ruts in the trail to get back on the blacktop with orders to 'step on it'.

In the back of the ambulance, Fiona shrugged out of the wax jacket, which was too cumbersome for her to work in and busied herself with hooking her patient up to a heart monitor, hastily pulling open his shirt to reveal the strong, smooth, muscular wall of his chest, marred in places by the beginnings of some livid bruising, and placing the electronic sensor pads at the required places on his chest, ran the machine to do a trace of his heart beat pattern.

_**Poor Hawke ….**_

In the soft light inside the ambulance, Fiona could see that his skin was grey under a wonderful tan, and it was clammy to the touch. His breathing was laboured and ragged and she could hear a distinct rattle from his chest whenever he breathed. Every time the ambulance hit a rut in the dirt track and bounced, Hawke let out an agonized moan, but his eyes remained closed.

Fiona did not like what the ECG was telling her.

His heart beat was fluctuating and getting weaker, his pulse slowing.

His lips now had a slightly blue tinge.

He was exhausted.

He was fighting for every breath, but his lungs were barely inflating, which could mean only one thing.

It wasn't air filling his chest cavity, but fluid.

_**Blood ….**_

If she did not get some oxygen into him quickly she could lose him.

The strain would be too much even for his young, healthy heart.

_**Dammit ….**_

"Steve, find a place to pull this thing over _**right**_ _**now**_!" She hollered at the driver.

"What's up, Doc?" Steve Bailey glanced back, hardly daring to take his eye off the road for fear of running off the dirt track.

"If I don't get a chest drain into him right now, he's going to arrest …."

"Shoot!" Bailey cursed. "Do you really have to do that …. _**Here …. Now?"**_

"No other choice, Steve. If we don't, we'll lose him …."

"Okay …."

"So park this crate. _**Right now**_!" She barked out the order.

"Okay Doc," he replied in a resigned tone.

Steve Bailey did as he was asked and after making sure that the ambulance was parked safely on the side of the road, he turned back to watch Fiona and Monroe work.

"Anybody ever tell you you're cute when you're riled?"

"Yeah …. "

Her gaze drifted down to her patient and a ghost of a smile touched her lips.

"Trevor, we'll need gloves, betadine solution, a sterile drape …. Hand me down a chest set, will ya …. Lidocaine 1 too …. You ever done one of these before?"

"Yes Ma'am," he nodded and grimaced as he fished around the various drawers in the box of medical supplies to pull out the things she had requested.

The chest set was already made up and sealed in a sterile environment, and contained needles, scalpel, forceps, gauze pads, tape, scissors, suture kit and the drainage system.

"Wouldn't catch me letting you near my chest with a scalpel," Steve Bailey visibly shivered as he watched Trevor lay out the equipment on a sterile cloth.

"Steve, if you were suffocating …. knew that you were dying …. Drowning …. and this was your only chance to live …. you'd beg me to do this procedure," Fiona spoke softly, trying not to let her patient over hear, sighing deeply as she carefully measured out a dose of the local anaesthetic, tapping the syringe to disperse any air bubbles and pushing the plunger upward so a small spurt of the drug spat out of the end of the needle.

"Gee Doc, if you put it like that …. Hey, here come the rest of the guys, I'd better let them know what's happening."

"Okay."

Fiona watched him slip out of the driver's seat and head towards the advancing flickering headlights outside.

"Let's get it over and done with. Hawke? Can you hear me?"

Fiona leaned closer to her patient's ear once more, watching his face for sign of reaction. He blinked rapidly but his eyes did not remain open.

"I'm going to try to help you breathe more easily. I think you have a hemothorax. I think you have blood building up in you chest," she explained carefully. "So, I am going to put in a chest drain. That means that I have to make a small incision in your chest, in the muscles between the ribs, so that I can insert a plastic tube. I'll numb the area first, but you'll still feel me pushing and tugging. It won't take long and when it's done you'll be able to feel the difference straight away. You'll be able to breathe normally, Okay?" He blinked again in acknowledgement.

"Good man. Trevor, any more pillows around here?" She fixed her gaze on Hawke even as she asked the question. "We're going to have to move you, Hawke," he let out a deep groan. "I know, but it's necessary. I need you to sit up and forward, lean you over the pillows."

Trevor pulled out two fat pillows from one of the overhead compartments as she explained the procedure.

"Don't worry, Trevor here will help you. Say hi, Trevor."

"Hi," Munroe grinned goofily and Fiona rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"Trevor will also be helping me," she sighed deeply and Munroe grinned toothily again. "So you will need to keep as still as possible and lean forward until I tell you to stop," she explained.

"I need you to do this, Hawke. It stretches the muscles and makes it easier for me to get into the intercostal space, so that I can make the incision," Fiona explained. "Do you understand?"

He nodded very gently.

"Are you giving me your consent to continue, Hawke?" He nodded again, understanding then why she had explained what she was about to do instead of just going ahead and getting it done.

She had needed his informed consent before laying another hand on him.

"Okay then, here goes …."

Trevor Monroe nodded, confirming that he had witnessed the patient's consent to the procedure.

Stringfellow Hawke gritted his teeth as the man called Trevor assisted him, firstly to sit up and then to lean forward over the pillows which he had laid in Hawke's lap.

He was tired.

He knew he was dying …. _**Slipping**_ _**away ….**_

He couldn't fight for much longer.

He had to concentrate really hard on her voice now. It was his anchor. The only thing keeping him going ….

_**He couldn't die now. …**_

Fate couldn't be that cruel ….

Could she?

He couldn't die ….

Not now ….

When this incredible woman had suddenly come into his life ….

Weary from fighting for each breath, the pressure on his chest was almost more than he could bear, but he remembered what Fiona had told him earlier, when she had showed him how to breathe without panicking and he had found that it also helped a little with the pain. It gave him something else to concentrate on besides the woozy, slightly disembodied feeling that the morphine was giving him, and the erratic beating of his heart, fluttering wildly like a bird trapped in his chest.

He winced when he felt the coldness of antiseptic against his hot skin and then the hypodermic needle penetrate his side but then, blissfully, after a few minutes the pain began to fade although he could feel Fiona's fingers gently probing the numbed area.

Fiona's face was a mask of concentration as her gloved fingers gently probed between Hawke's ribs, trying to locate the correct place to make her incision.

It was a very delicate procedure, and one that required precision.

She had to cut in the right place and to the right depth, or else the drain would not work ….

Or she could collapse his lung.

Fiona found the right place, the seventh intercostal space, and deftly made her incision with confidence and she worked quickly, with Trevor Munroe's assistance to insert the tube into Hawke's chest, securing it with sutures, Vaseline gauze and tape, ensuring an air tight seal and then she watched Hawke with a soft smile, realising that he had been holding his breath as she worked, encouraging him to take a first tentative breath and then grinned at the audible, deep intake of breath that she both saw and felt fill his chest.

"Okay Hawke. Well done."

Fiona and Trevor waited for a couple of minutes so that he could get his breath back, then they sat Hawke upright carefully, propping him up with the extra pillows, as the bag on the other end of the length of tubing began to fill with blood as it drained from his chest, aided only by gravity.

"Better?" She knew the answer before he nodded weakly. The relief on his face was plain to see.

But he wasn't out of the woods just yet.

"Thanks," his voice was a mere whisper now barely audible over the hiss of oxygen and muffled through the oxygen mask. He was still drowsy from the morphine, but it was clear that he was feeling more comfortable now.

"Can we get moving again, Doc?" Steve Bailey asked, suddenly poking his head in through the back door of the ambulance to see if she was finished.

"Sure Steve. Should be okay for now, just don't bounce us around too much."

"I'll see what I can do Doc, but these mountain roads weren't built to accommodate rigs like this."

"That chest drain comes out and you'll just have to stop …. And I'll be teaching you how to put it back in again …."

"Okay. Okay," Bailey moaned but he understood her point.

"Great job, Doc," Trevor grinned at her, clearing away the debris of empty wrappers and packaging and swabs from the floor around them.

Fiona smiled her thanks and set about listening to her patient's chest and checking out the readings on the heart monitor.

She was pleased to find that there was a marked improvement.

His heart rate was almost normal now and the cyanotic blue of his lips was fading.

Now if he could just stay this stable until they got him to the clinic ….

Still …. It was a miracle that they had got him this far.

Fiona reached out for Hawke's hand, her intention to take his pulse, but he clasped it gently in his own paw and squeezed it softly, drawing her gaze.

The look she saw in his beautiful blue eyes almost took her breath away ….

Such gratitude …. Admiration …. Respect …. Relief ….

_**And something else …. **_

Something that she was afraid to put a name to.

She smiled and squeezed his hand in return.

There was no need for words at that moment.

Each understood the other perfectly.

"Hurt you," he looked down at her gloved hand apologetically. "Sorry," he gently stroked the top of her gloved hand with his thumb.

"I need to take your pulse," Fiona finally broke eye contact with him, regretfully, aware that Trevor Munroe was watching from the other side of the ambulance, and of the soft blush that was blooming on her cheeks.

She turned Hawke's hand over in her own.

"How's the pain now? I can give you a little more morphine," Hawke closed his eyes and she also noted a very slight movement of his head, no.

"Hawke, you don't have to suffer unnecessarily. If you need pain relief, don't be afraid to ask for it. We've all been witness to your bravery, now let me help you," he squeezed her hand gently one more time and then released it, to allow her to continue to take his pulse, his eyelids fluttering closed.

"Hold on back there …." Steve Bailey called, gunning the engine. "Here we go …."

The rest of the journey to Pine Valley was uneventful.

Hawke remained stable, eyes closed his breathing regular and easy now. His temperature, pulse, respiration and blood pressure were recorded regularly on his chart, along with the doses of medication that she had administered and the treatment already given, and the only thing that really worried Fiona Cromwell was the fact that his temperature wasn't coming down.

The ambulance pulled up outside the clinic and Steve Bailey quickly opened up the back doors of the ambulance, then he and Trevor Munroe helped Fiona down before pulling out the gurney containing their patient.

As the two paramedics prepared to dash inside out of the pouring rain, Chief of Police, Dan McEwan ambled across the road to greet Fiona.

"Hold on Doc. How's he doing?" Fiona realised that he had been sitting in his patrol car on the other side of the street, waiting for them to arrive.

"He's hanging on in there, Chief," Fiona responded to the older man's question distractedly, her eyes following Steve and Trevor as they wheeled her patient up the loading bay ramp toward the swing doors.

"It was pretty wild there for a moment, but he's young and fit. Steve," She called after the paramedics. "Ask Sheila to prep him for X-rays, head, neck, chest, abdomen and legs. I'll be right along …."

Steve Bailey waved in acknowledgement and Fiona turned her attention back to Dan McEwan.

"We left Gerry Fox behind, so your men shouldn't have any trouble finding the crash site," Fiona told him as they headed toward the clinic.

"Any idea who he is?" McEwan asked, holding the door open for her.

He was a big bear of a man in his early sixties, intelligent grey eyes, greying slightly at the temples and carrying about twenty pounds in excess weight, mostly around his middle, but he had a kindly face and reassuring manner.

Still, it didn't do to get on the wrong side of him …. The wrong side of the law ….

"Just a name. Not sure if it's his first name or last name. Could even be a nickname. He calls himself Hawke …. And oh, he was a pilot in Vietnam. Maybe he has some ID on him. I'll make sure Sheila or one of the boys checks his pockets. Helicopter should be easy enough to trace, had a pretty fancy paint job and a company logo or name on it and a number. Try the FAA in the morning. If not you could always try the Army …."

"Okay Doc. Any idea what happened?"

"He said something about the chopper being struck by lightening …."

"Figures. Thanks. I'll need a statement …."

"Sure thing," Fiona acknowledged tiredly.

"Can't do much tonight except secure the area, not in this weather, but I'll send a couple of the boys out there in the morning. How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright," she assured, having no idea how bedraggled and weary she looked, clothes covered in mud and blood and soaked through to her skin.

"Mona said you were up all night birthing the Preston baby," she nodded. "Look Fee …. I'm sorry Mona wasn't more helpful when you needed us," he had the grace to look shamefaced.

"I don't know why she doesn't like me Dan, but when her personal feelings interfere with my patient's safety," her voice trailed off.

There was no point in taking her frustration out on him. Mona Baker was a law unto herself and he could no more fire her than the Pope could fire God.

"I'll talk to her. Have a little word …."

"Save your breath, Dan …. But I appreciate the offer anyway," she smiled tiredly.

"You look done in" his expression softened now and Fiona's heart sank.

She knew that he was fond of her, that he really liked her ….

But she most certainly did not feel the same way.

He was much too old for her …. not just in years but in attitude and demeanour, an old man before his time …. apart from which, he was still getting over the death of his wife of more than thirty years.

Fiona liked him and enjoyed working with him, but as far as she was concerned, that was all there ever could be between them.

She had tried to let him down gently, tried to let the younger men in the department know that their corny jokes about the old man being sweet on her were unwelcome, but Dan was a stubborn old coot and every time she agreed to have dinner with him, just so that she could try to set the record straight, he took it to mean that he had somehow gotten a little closer to his goal of courting her.

"Still have work to do,"

Again her gaze drifted down the small hallway in the direction of her consulting room, where she knew that her colleagues would be working to get her patient out of his wet clothing, drying him off gently and getting him into a hospital gown before wheeling him into the X-ray room.

Dan McEwan took the hint and watched her walk down the hallway without further comment, watching her go with a heavy sigh on his lips, wishing that she didn't always have to be so distant.

He knew that she was trying to be kind …. Spare his feelings ….

But a bit of good old fashioned honesty wouldn't have gone amiss.

He knew he didn't stand a chance in trying to win her heart.

He also knew that she held him in high regard professionally and had no desire to spoil their working relationship.

_**But dammit, he couldn't help the way he felt about her ….**_

Still, he wasn't a hormone driven teenager and there was no way that he would act on his feelings, knowing that she did not feel the same way.

And Fiona Cromwell had made it perfectly clear that she _**wasn't**_ interested.

She wasn't interested in _**any**_ man.

He found that oddly comforting.

It wasn't just _**him**_.

He was of the opinion that there was something in her past, some terrible hurt or trauma that had caused her to build an impenetrable wall around her heart and she was determined that nothing and no-one would break it down.

She kept herself to herself and did not encourage any kind of attachment.

She worked alone as much as possible and lived alone …. And Dan McEwan could not help thinking that it was a crying shame.

She was young enough to be his daughter ….

Another pretty damned good reason why he hadn't actively pursued her ….

But, if she were his daughter, he would have sat her down and told her not to go wasting her life, that we only come round this way once and putting off things like finding a man to love and raising a family with, in favour of getting on with her career, was a mistake.

She was a pretty woman with a big, kind heart and a sweet personality.

She should be sharing that with someone she loved and who loved her.

But he wasn't her father, and she wasn't about to accept any fatherly advice from him. No matter how well meant.

Whatever it was she was running from, hiding from …. Someday it would show up and bite her in the ass.

Having seen the look on her pretty face as she watched the young man on the gurney being wheeled away, Dan McEwan began to wonder if that day hadn't just arrived.

He let out another deep sigh, and hitching up his pants returned to his patrol car where he radioed in to the office and told two of his deputies to go up to the crash site and seal it off until morning.

Then he rode back to the office and after pouring himself a mug of steaming black coffee, thus fortified, he sidled up to Mona Baker and gave her a piece of his mind.

The first thing that Fiona Cromwell noticed when she walked into her consulting room was that everything was quiet and calm, under control.

The big clock on the wall in the corridor outside her office read five minutes after six o'clock, in the evening, and Fiona could not believe where the time had gone.

She would have to get him into surgery pretty soon …. Or the blood supply to his leg could be permanently compromised.

But first she needed X-rays, so that she could see exactly what she was up against.

Sheila Clay grabbed a hold of her arm before she got anywhere near her patient and steered her toward the locker room where she thrust a couple of thick, fluffy, warm white towels at her and ordered that Fiona get out of her wet clothes and into some surgical scrubs, which she had also thoughtfully warmed on the radiator in the hallway.

Fiona did not argue, but grinned her thanks to Sheila, who disappeared briefly while Fiona got out of her sodden, mud covered clothing and ran hot water into the sink, then used a cloth to wash off the mud from her legs and feet and towelled herself vigorously all over, including her hair, restoring the blood flow with a satisfying tingle, and then she pulled on the thin green linen surgical scrubs.

She was just trying to untangle her clothes and put them together in a pile ready for sorting through later when Sheila returned and handed her a mug of steaming hot chocolate.

"Drink …." She ordered. "I figured you could use a sugar fix about now."

"Thanks Sheila," Fiona took a sip gratefully.

"Should really have had a long hot shower …." Sheila mithered.

It had long been a bone of contention that the doctor's office was not suitable to have a shower installed. The plumbing just wouldn't stand up to it, even if they could find a space big enough for a stall.

"I'm already half way to pneumonia, you want to finish me off? I can barely afford medical supplies, so a shower, be it hot or cold, is definitely a luxury …. I figure we should begin to break even about Christmas 1999 and maybe, just maybe I will look at sinking the twenty dollars profit into fitting a bracket on the wall," Fiona chuckled. "Or I may be bitter and cantankerous and mean enough by then to use the money to take myself off on a trip to Vegas …."

"You? Take a trip? Nah, you need a map to find your own tush, honey!"

"How's our guest?"

Fiona decided to change the subject. She enjoyed the occasional joke with Sheila but sometimes the other woman was inclined to take things just a little too far and get a little too familiar.

"Pretty much as you left him, Doc. The guys will have him ready to wheel into X-ray any minute now. I cranked up the machine and loaded film so it should just about be warmed up by now."

"Thanks …."

"I made up a bed in the observation ward. For later, and set up everything I thought you might need in the exam room. I kinda went a little mad with the sterilising solution …. And then some!" She chortled.

"Great," Fiona smiled softly.

She could well imagine that Sheila had scrubbed and washed and sterilised the room to within an inch of its life. She would probably walk in there and find the paint running down the walls. That industrial sterilising fluid was pretty noxious stuff. It could probably dissolve lead given half a chance.

"I turned up the furnace too …. He's gonna need surgery on that leg, isn't he?" Fiona nodded, taking another sip of the scalding chocolate, wrapping her cold hands around the mug. "I saw the chest drain too. He got other internal injuries?"

"That's what I'm hoping the X-rays will tell us, Sheila …."

"Should I get on the horn to Dr Oberman?"

"No point …. Roads are washed out …. No way he could get here and our guest can't afford to wait."

"Then I better go scrub up. You'll need a scrub nurse if you have to go digging around in his innards."

"Sheila …."

Fiona tried to admonish but found her self grinning like an idiot. Sheila's sense of humour was infectious and just what Fiona needed _**sometimes**_, to drive away the blues.

"You make me sound like a butcher," she chuckled then finished off her hot chocolate. "That was terrific. Just what I needed," she licked her lips appreciatively.

"You need a whole lot more than hot chocolate, lady, if you're gonna spend half the night in surgery," Sheila sighed deeply, switching to mother hen mode. "But as usual, all the cupboards were bare …."

"You can get me a fat sugary donut when Marvin opens the diner …."

"Dipped in chocolate and covered in sprinkles …." Sheila mused, eyes closed in anticipation of the glorious taste of the confection.

"My God Sheila, you could really turn a girl's head saying something like that, especially when she's only had coffee all night and most of the day!" Fiona sighed wistfully.

"And a side order of ice cream …. Rocky road …."

"Mmmmmmmmm," Fiona let out a soft groan of pleasure at the thought. "You _**dare**_ bring that contraband anywhere near me and you're fired." She teasingly warned the older woman. "I can't afford larger premises and if you bring me donuts dipped in chocolate _**and**_ a side of ice cream, I won't be able to fit through the front door!" Both women laughed gently. "Now quit torturing me with false promises of paradise. Right now we have work to do."

"We sure do," Sheila agreed, pulling herself together. "We sure do. I'd better go make sure those idiot sons of mine have checked that he doesn't have anything metallic left on him …."

"Like a metal plate in his head?" Fiona chuckled.

She had heard the joke many times before but she knew it pleased Sheila to have her comedic talents recognised and appreciated.

The middle aged nurse beamed at her as she left the locker room, leaving Fiona to pull on surgical boots and shoe coverings before she too went out to the consulting room.


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of the journey to Pine Valley was uneventful

SANTINI AIR HANGAR – VAN NUYS, CALIFORNIA.

"Dammit it all to hell, String …. _**Where are you**_!" Dominic Santini cursed loudly, tempted to throw a socket wrench across the hangar just to hear a noise other than the sound of his own voice.

He was tired and grouchy, and wired from drinking too much strong black coffee, but more importantly he was now growing more and more anxious and concerned with the passing of every minute that his young friend did not return.

He had been relieved to hear from Hawke earlier in the day, when String had called to say that he was returning home …. Hadn't been overly concerned to hear the tiredness in the younger man's voice.

There had been other times, Santini had recalled, when Hawke had sounded worse.

However, as the hours had slipped by and the estimated time for Hawke's arrival had gone by, Santini had grown more and more anxious.

_**It just wasn't like String …. **_

Not to call in to fill his old friend in on any change in his plans.

Santini's head had been filled with the most horrendous scenarios, since an hour after Hawke's estimated time of arrival had elapsed, and they had just gotten worse and worse as the time had gone on.

He had a pretty powerful imagination.

He'd seen a lot of life. The war …. WW2 not Vietnam like String, but just as terrifying and exciting in its own way ….

He could pretty much imagine the worst that could happen to a man ….

A man and a helicopter ….

At first he had reasoned that maybe String had decided not to make the trip after all because he had been feeling really sick ….

But then he would have called Santini and told him so.

Or maybe he had developed mechanical trouble with the chopper and had had to find a place to set down for the night.

But again, Hawke would have called him.

Hawke would have known how worried his old buddy would be about him ….

_**And he would have called.**_

There was no two ways about it

It was just the way he was.

A considerate young man, who would not want an old geezer to tie himself in knots worrying unnecessarily over his health.

No …. No matter how he imagined it, Hawke would have called.

With the exception of two scenarios ….

The one where Hawke had developed mechanic trouble and had been forced to set down in the last place in the civilised USA that did not have telephones ….

Or …. The one where the chopper had developed a major mechanical problem and crashed …. And String was badly injured …. Cut off from civilisation and rescue …. No one even knowing that he was out there …. Dying ….Or …. Already dead.

Dominic Santini swallowed the lump that had suddenly risen in his throat and squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the image of Stringfellow Hawke's mangled body trapped inside the twisted metal of the Bell Jet Ranger.

It was just _**too**_ vivid.

After two hours he had started calling in favours with the air traffic controllers that he had gotten to know over the years, but none of them had received word that a Mayday had been received, even as far away as Texas.

No reports of aircraft suddenly disappearing off of radar screens.

And even though he knew that String hadn't filed a flight plan that put him anywhere near the ocean, he had called the Coast Guard anyway.

After two and a half hours, he had started calling the hospitals.

Nothing …. Nada …. Zilch ….

He tried to tell himself that that was a _**good**_ sign …. But even then, some cynical little voice in the back of his mind had pointed out that maybe something so cataclysmic had happened that Hawke had not had time to put out a Mayday call and no one knew that his helicopter had crashed and that he was in need of help.

Santini had told himself that he would wait until sunset.

Three hours over the estimated arrival time.

Hawke had said it himself …. He had wanted to be home by dark.

And if Hawke said he was going to be somewhere …. Especially when it involved flying, Santini knew that he meant it.

If Hawke wasn't home by nightfall then it was a sure fire bet that he wasn't coming home.

_**For whatever reason ….**_

And that left only one option open to Santini ….

It was a last resort ….

But even so, it was one that Dominic Santini found even just the thought of unpalatable.

He and Michael Coldsmith Briggs III didn't exactly see eye to eye at the best of times, and he could well imagine the haughty way the man in white would look at him with his one good eye, as he demanded to know why he had waited so long before reporting Hawke as missing …. lost ….

Like he _**owned**_ Hawke's life ….

_**Like hell he did!**_

Now the shadows were falling outside the hangar and the sun was almost level with the horizon …. He was almost out of time …. And there was still no sign …. No word from Hawke ….

"Dammit String! Where are you!" He howled again, but there was no one around to hear his baleful cries. "Oh son, I hope you're okay …." He again swallowed a lump in his throat.

And finally, with a heavy heart, he opened up a drawer in his desk and scooped up the keys to his Jeep.

There was only one sure way he knew to contact Archangel …. And get his immediate attention.

And that was by secure link from Airwolf ….

And that meant making a trip out to the Lair ….

At least the drive out there would give him a little more time to contemplate the wisdom of what he was considering …. But, he suspected, in the end, he would have little choice.

Except maybe to take the Lady up on his own and retrace String's flight plan back from the High Sierra's.

He brightened for a moment then dropped back down into the doldrums, because he knew that that would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, even with all that high powered scanning equipment around him.

Airwolf was Santini's only resource, but Archangel would have all the resources of The Firm at his fingertips, and even if it meant that Santini had to swallow his pride and eat crow for the rest of his life ….

He would do whatever was best for Stringfellow Hawke ….

Fiona Cromwell moved across her consulting room and switched on the light box which flickered briefly before glowing brightly enough to illuminate the X-ray film she hung on the front of it.

It was a shot of Hawke's damaged leg and when she saw it there in black and white she whistled softly through her teeth.

_**It was bad.**_

Worse than she had suspected.

But …. Fixable …. _**Just ….**_ With pins to strengthen it ….

However she would have to work quickly ….

To ensure continued blood flow, that blood vessels and nerves did not die due to lack of oxygenated blood.

But with a little care during surgery and TLC afterwards, she didn't think that he would lose the leg.

So he'd set off metal detectors in airports in the future …. And he might have a slight limp when he was tired …. But he was damned lucky.

It could have been worse.

_**Much worse ….**_

Next she put up the picture of Hawke's skull and was relieved to see no sign of a fracture, although she still couldn't rule out a mild concussion. She also couldn't see any sign of damage to his neck vertebrae, or to his cheek bone.

Finally she put up the thoracic film which clearly showed the cracked ribs as indicated by the bruising to his chest and the chest drain she had inserted, however there was no fluid in the pleural space and no sign of any fluid in his belly.

So no internal injuries after all, just severe bruising caused by the lap strap.

_**Thank God for small mercies ….**_

Her patient was lying quietly just a short distance away, in the examination room, floating, pain free, in a drug induced haze, or so she hoped, after she had administered more morphine. She had had to give him a top up so that he could endure their having to move him to get the X-rays done and tape up his ribs, a process that had taken almost an hour …. And then it had taken a further half an hour for the film to develop ….

Damned old machine kept breaking down.

Now that she knew that he didn't have a skull fracture she could go ahead and give him a full intravenous anaesthetic and make a start on his leg, and when that was done, while he was still out, she would suture the wound to his head.

Sheila was getting the examination room ready for the procedure on his leg, laying out the surgical drapes and trays of instruments and making sure that they had things like extra oxygen, saline, blood serum and plasma.

Fiona had already hung a bag of plasma to replace the blood he had lost because of the damaged artery in his leg, but he might need more during the procedure.

Hawke's temperature still worried her. Despite the fact that they had pulled out all the ice they could find and wrapped it in towels and placed it at various points around his body, his temperature wasn't coming down.

There was still a chance that he might have a seizure or vomit during the operation on his leg, and that wouldn't be good news.

Fiona put up the film of Hawke's leg again and studied it carefully.

She couldn't put it off much longer.

For both their sakes.

"Okay …. Let's do this …."

Sheila Clay watched Fiona enter the examination room, now prepared as an emergency operating room, and cast her eye over the trays of instruments, nodding her approval.

"So, "Fiona drew level with Hawke's head and leaned close to his ear. "We're about ready to make a start. You just lie there and have pleasant dreams."

"Awake," je slurred drowsily, but Fiona had to lean in closer to catch what he was saying. "Stay …. Awake …."

"No way, Soldier. You're off to dreamland, and that's an order …."

"Awake …."

"No." Fiona insisted. "This is a very delicate operation and the last thing I need is you fighting me," she reasoned with him. "Go to sleep …. And when you wake up it will be all over."

"If I wake up," he slurred again.

"Oh please," Fiona sighed, glancing over at Sheila and rolling her eyes in exasperation. "I'll be giving you a little injection, Hawke, that's all, although I do have other methods I could resort to. Do I have to get my nurse here to bring me a big mallet to hit you over the head to knock you out?"

"She would too," Sheila grinned.

"It's perfectly safe, Hawke," Fiona, leaning in closer to his ear assured him in a soft voice. "Trust me. After all we've been through up to now, do you really think I would let anything bad happen to you?" Then she drew back slightly, aware of Sheila Clay's silent scrutiny of the scene from the other side of the room.

"Now let me get on with what I have to do. Let me keep that promise I made to you. About your leg," she gently reminded him. "Okay?"

"Okay," he relented somewhat grudgingly and before he could change his mind, Fiona nodded to Sheila to hand her the syringe full of anaesthetic agent.

"Sweet dreams, Soldier. Now, count backward from ten for me …." She instructed inserting the needle into the IV in the back of his hand and pushing the plunger to dispense the drug into his vein.

"Ten …. Nine …. Eight …. Sev …." His voice slowly trailed off and his eyes rolled upward and closed.

"He's out," Sheila declared, pulling on a face mask.

Fiona watched Hawke carefully for a few more seconds and decided that he was indeed out for the count, then slipping an oxygen mask down over his nose and mouth, she instructed Sheila to do his observations while she returned to the locker room to scrub up and put on gown, mask and gloves.

"He's a good looking one, isn't he," Sheila commented when Fiona returned to the exam room.

"Can't say I noticed," Fiona replied absently and was suddenly aware of Sheila's speculative look over the top of her mask. "What? It was dark out there …. I did kinda have other things on my mind …."

"So what? You ain't blind, girl!" Sheila wiggled her eyebrows suggestively.

"Okay. So I guess now I see him in the light. He is kind of …. "

"Cute?"

"Handsome," Fiona settled on the word after a moment or two.

"Drop dead gorgeous more like. Been in the wars before though …." Sheila commented, obviously having noticed the old scar he carried on his lower back. "Nice caboose," she chuckled softly.

"What do I keep telling you about eyeing the patient's butts?"

"Guilty as charged, but in my house, when you've seen one, you've seen 'em all! Can't blame a gal for admiring a change of scenery. This job has to have at least one perk. So, where did he get the scar?"

"Vietnam," Fiona confirmed. "Everything okay?"

Fiona grew serious now, wanting to distract the older woman away from what was for her still rather a dark time in her life.

"Sure."

"Then let's get started. What time is it?"

"Quarter of eight …."

"If everything is pretty straight forward we should be done in a couple of hours," She looked back at Sheila and held out her gloved hand. "Scalpel. Make sure you keep checking his blood pressure, pulse, respiration and temperature, especially his temperature, I'm concerned about that fever …. Five minute intervals, and call out his pulse and blood pressure to me as I work, Okay?"

"Okay, Doc."

"Let's make a start then, Suction …. "

Dominic Santini let out a deep sigh and cast a glance at his wristwatch. He had wedged himself into the Lady's right seat after pacing up and down inside the dark, chilled cave for half an hour, waiting for a reply from Archangel.

The agent he had spoken to on the secure line to the Firm had informed him that Archangel was in a very important meeting and could not be disturbed, but, when that meeting broke for coffee etc, she would ensure that Dominic's message would be passed on to Archangel.

That had been over an hour ago.

Santini chewed his lip impatiently.

He had taken a thermos of hot black coffee with him, knowing that out there in the desert the night would be cold enough to penetrate his old bones, and had sipped at it sparingly, however it was all gone now and the only sure way to keep warm was to sit inside the beautiful Mach 1 super helicopter whom he called The Lady.

_**Airwolf.**_

At first Dominic had felt a little awkward.

This was String's place. His seat. Despite the fact that just lately Hawke had been deferring the right seat to him, allowing Dominic to get to know his precious Lady better.

For the good of future missions for the Firm.

All was quiet and still, except for the low hum coming from the instrument panel indicating the machine's readiness for action ….

Her power ….

"Come in Airwolf.This is Archangel …."

Dominic Santini jumped at the sound of the government agent's voice as it filled the cockpit.

"'bout ce as it filled the cockpit.

of the government agen'blessed time too," he snapped, forgetting that he had set the radio system to open mike.

"Hawke …."

"No, this is Dominic Santini."

"Santini! What the …."

"Sorry to break into your evening," Dominic sneered, making it sound like a night at the opera or ballet.

"This had better be damned good. Where's Hawke? Look Santini, put Hawke on …." Archangel demanded impatiently.

"I can't …."

"I'll wait," Archangel sighed deeply, obviously assuming that Airwolf's Chief pilot was temporarily indisposed. "But tell him to make it snappy. I really don't have much time …."

"Michael, I _**can't**_ put Hawke on …. Because he isn't here …." Santini sighed in exasperation beginning to think that this was not one of his better ideas.

"What do you mean he's not there? You're there with Airwolf, alone?" The government agent's tone now grew suspicious.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because it was the only way I knew how to get hold of you quickly …."

"And you needed me because?"

"String is missing …."

"Missing? Missing how exactly, Mr Santini?"

"AWOL …. Off the radar …. Not where he damned well should be …. Missing!" Dominic raged.

"Okay Dominic, take it easy. Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning …."

"String took a little vacation, in my Bell Jet Ranger," he clarified "And he planned to return to the office today. When he didn't show up I got …. Concerned …." Santini chose the word very carefully.

"Look _**Mr Santini**_, I'm touched by your _**concern**_ for your friend, but I don't know what you think I can do because he's a little late …."

"Michael, he's not just a _**little**_ late …. He's almost _**five hours**_ over due, with no word from him at all. Feeling sickly and trying to outrun a storm …. And you probably think I'm an old woman just fussing over nothing, but I _**know**_ String …. And this just isn't like him."

"Where did he go? What was he doing? He didn't call and let me know he'd be off station …." Archangel complained.

"Something came up …."

"Something? What something?"

"Something about St John," Santini explained grudgingly. "Hawke went to investigate for himself, but it turned out to be a wild goose chase and he was on his way home. He called me this lunchtime to tell me his ETA ….."

"What about St John, Mr Santini?" Archangel interrupted brusquely.

"An old war buddy of String's turned up at the hangar the other day and told him that some of the guys down at the VA Hospital were saying that they thought some new guy who had just been brought in from Laos was St John. He was discharged from the VA before String could go see him, so String found out where he was headed and went after him."

"Why didn't he check the information with me? I could have told him it was a waste of time …."

"You know__Hawke …."

"Yes, I _**know**_ Hawke," Archangel's sigh was almost deafening and Santini winced.

"Hey, St John is the guy's brother. Some things are just _**too**_ personal, you know what I mean. This he had to do …. to see for himself …."

"All right Dominic," Archangel sighed again, suddenly realising that the older man must be truly worried and heartsick that Hawke had not returned as planned. "Give us all the information you have, and our people will get on to it straight away. I have to go back into a very important meeting now, but Marella will see that things get put into action …."

"Thank you Michael," Dominic's relief was evident in his voice and Archangel could imagine just what it had cost the stubborn old coot to ask _**him**_ of all people for help.

"Ah …. Dominic …. You weren't thinking of taking Airwolf for a little spin on your own were you, by any chance?"

"Don't think it didn't cross my mind, Whitey …. But no. Even with all this sophisticated scanning equipment it would still be like looking for a needle in a haystack. Beside which, I want to be at the office just in case String tries to call …."

"I think that would be best too," Archangel agreed.

"If I had thought that it was the best thing for String, I wouldn't have thought twice about taking the Lady up. She and I get along just fine …."

"I know. Hawke's been updating me on your progress. Now, details Dominic, we need details. I have to go but I've got Marella standing by. Tell her everything you know and then get your Italian ass back to the hangar. If we're very lucky, Hawke might even be there to greet you, curious to know what all the fuss is about."

"From your lips to His ears …. Please God …." Dominic offered up a prayer and then in the next instant, Marella was on the other end of the line asking in a calm, professional voice just what he knew of Stringfellow Hawke's intended flight plan back to Los Angeles.

"That covers some pretty treacherous terrain, Mr Santini …." Was Marella's only comment. Dominic knew it, and he also knew what she was hinting at.

If Hawke's helicopter had had to ditch …. Or he had crashed, in those mountains, and woods …. They might _**never **_find him ….

"I'll put out an all points bulletin, Mr Santini," Marella advised.

"Hey lady, he's not wanted …."

"Not _**that**_ kind of all points bulletin, Mr Santini. It will be a general alert to all law enforcement agencies around that part of the country. Put them all on high alert."

"Okay …."

"Do you have paper and a pen handy?"

"What do you think, kid?"

"Okay, I'll call you at the hangar later to check in. Give you a number where you can contact me if you hear anything. Anything at all, Mr Santini. You have to level with us, and not go off on some half cocked, gung ho rescue mission on your own, do you understand?"

"I understand my buddy is in mighty big trouble, honey. If I can help him, then nothing in this world is going to stop me. Not you, not Archangel, not the United States Air Force. Do you understand?"

"Yes Sir."

"Okay, the deal is this, I won't get in your way if you don't get in mine."

"Deal." Marella's tone indicated that she knew that there was little point in arguing with him.

"Thanks."

"Don't worry. We'll find Hawke …."

"Yeah, it's _**what**_ you might find that bothers me," Santini felt a lump rise in his throat. "Look, I better clean up here and get moving. Let you get on with whatever it is you government folks do in these kinds of situations …. Airwolf out."

Fiona Cromwell was almost asleep on her feet.

She was standing before the washbasin in the women's locker room having just finished washing the Plaster of Paris from the cast she had just put on Hawke's leg from her hands and splashed cold water on her face, gazing at the wan, pale, tired face reflected back at her through the dull, chipped mirror over the sink. She both looked and felt every one of her forty years, but she could not help smiling tiredly back at her reflected self.

The surgery on Hawke's leg had taken longer than she had anticipated, but all in all it had gone well. He was young and healthy and in time he would probably make a full recovery.

Never knowing the meticulous, painstaking care his surgeon had taken to ensure that that would be the end result.

He would need lots of physical therapy to strengthen the leg, but he was already in pretty good shape and didn't look as if he was a stranger to working out.

The second set of X-rays that she and Sheila had struggled to take after the insertion of the metal pins in his leg, had shown that the bones were straight and in the correct position to knit perfectly ….

Given time ….

And she had detected a strong pulse in all the right places, along with the foot and leg having a healthy pink colour. This indicated to Fiona that the blood vessels had been reconnected correctly.

She would have to wait for him to wake up before she would know for sure that there was little or no nerve damage …. But, even if she said it herself, she had done a terrific job.

"What're you doing in there Doc, making your will?" Sheila called softly through the door. "Coffees good and hot, so come and get it …."

"Be right there," Fiona replied tiredly.

She needed something more substantial than coffee but knew that it was all she could stomach right now.

She also needed to sit down, before she fell down.

But if she sat for very long, she knew that she would fall asleep in minutes, and Fiona did not want that to happen, not while her patient was still under the anaesthetic and still vulnerable.

So, she would go to her office, write up her notes on the operation while it was still fresh in her memory, but first, she would check through his discarded clothing for ID, as she had promised Dan McEwan.

She had forgotten how draining it could be working twenty four hours straight, although at one time, she had thrived on it …. But she had been younger then.

She was getting soft in her old age.

Pine Valley had little need for its General Practitioner to be on duty twenty four hours a day, seven days a week.

She had plenty of down time, but her patients could always reach her if they needed her.

Just like the Prestons had, when their impatient new son had made known his intention to arrive early.

Suddenly Fiona realised that she had lost track of the time again.

Was it morning, or the middle of the night?

She felt like she hadn't closed her eyes for a week.

"Coffee," she promised her reflection and smiled, knowing that the thick, strong black brew that Sheila had made would give her the jump start she needed, and the second cup would have her buzzing in no time.

Sheila was just completing the latest set of observations and noting them on Hawke's chart when Fiona emerged from the locker room.

"How is he?"

"Peaceful," Sheila smiled. "Pulse, respiration and BP are fine, but his temperature just went up again," she told Fiona with a note of concern in her voice. "What's that all about?"

"Virus probably. When he was conscious he managed to tell me that he'd been feeling off colour before the crash. Flu …. I know, Lord save us from self diagnosticians, but I think maybe he was right," Fiona stifled a yawn with her fist and took Hawke's chart from Sheila. "Headache, sore throat, nausea. Vomiting . He was quite sick up there," Sheila grimaced at this. "Fever …."

"Is that what caused the crash? Because he was already sick?"

"No. Told me the tail rotor got hit by lightening. My guess is that that wiped out all his electrics and instruments," Fiona looked up from his chart to see Sheila watching her curiously, the question in her eyes clearly there for Fiona to see.__

_**How in the hell do you suddenly know so much about helicopters?**_

Fiona let out a soft sigh before continuing, having no intention of revealing her past to the older woman.

"We know that we cleaned the leg out pretty thoroughly, and cleaned up the chest drain site and the wound to his head too, so no infection. Besides, it's too soon for him to be getting an infection related fever. So, my money's on something flu like. Better give him some more Penicillin though, just to be on the safe side," She scrawled a note on his chart and put her initials beside it, then handed the chart back to Sheila. "Make a note of the time will you please."

"Sure, I'll see to it, you go get yourself some coffee."

"Thanks. Sheila, where did you guys put his clothes?"

"Sluice room. I was going to go sort through them in a minute to see if anything could be laundered and repaired."

"Can you salvage much?"

"Doubt it. Most everything had to be cut off of him."

"Did you find any ID? Wallet?"

"Didn't really look, Doc. I thought I would do that when I went through them."

"No need, I'll do it. I promised Dan McEwan I would check for ID. Our young friend might have relatives who are worried sick about him right now."

"Don't doubt it, Doc. Guy who looks like that must surely have someone wanting to claim him."

Fiona entered the sluice room and found a clear plastic bag containing the two small items of jewellery that the boys had removed from him before he went into the X-ray room sitting on the counter beside a stainless steel drainer.

His watch ….. And the small thin silver coloured bracelet which she recognised as the kind that some people were wearing these days in remembrance of someone lost or killed in Vietnam.

She also found the pile of his shredded clothing discarded in a deep old fashioned white enamelled sink, stained with dark smears of dried blood and splatters of now dry mud, flight jacket and shirt slit from top to bottom in back and at the cuffs, so that the sleeves could be pulled easily off of him without moving his chest and neck …. Jeans, seams slit and waist band cut through, again so that they could easily be pulled away from him without moving his leg.

Medical staff all around the world were trained to remove a patient's clothing in this way, causing as little trauma to the patient as possible. Clothing, it was reasoned, could always be replaced. More often than not, speed was of the essence and cutting the clothes off was the quickest way to get at injuries and get patients into the emergency operating room.

Fiona picked up one half of the tan flight jacket. It was soft and smelled of Hawke's shampoo and aftershave, the leather scuffed and darkened, well seasoned from having been well worn by its owner.

For just the briefest moment she had the strongest desire to hug the leather to her and savour the scent of him.

Then she pulled herself together, feeling heat blossom briefly on her cheeks.

_**What the hell was wrong with her?**_

Fiona turned the tattered half of the flight jacket around carefully, looking for pockets on the inside and out. She did the same with the other half, and then his plaid shirt and finally his jeans, where she located a small dark brown leather wallet in the right back pocket then she went back to her office, noting that the clock in the corridor was now reading ten after midnight.

And poured out a thick cupful of the aromatic coffee Sheila had prepared, sipping it carefully because it was very hot, and sat at her desk, setting the wallet down on the blotter, staring at it for several minutes.

She did not understand why she suddenly did not want to open it.

But she didn't.

They needed to know his full identity, she knew that …. But up to that point, all she had needed to know was that he was a man called Hawke who was injured and helpless and needed her help.

A man that she could care for.

_**Care**_ for …. Not as a doctor …. But as a woman cares for a man, in the only safe way a woman could.

Without commitment or complication …. Secretly …. Remotely …. Not real ….

Just a pleasant fantasy that could hurt no-one.

For he would_** never**_ know it ….

No.

She didn't want to find out his full name. Knowing his name would lead to knowing his history …. And the last thing she wanted to find out was that he was married ….. Had a pretty young wife some where …. Had children ….

Parents ….

Things that would make him real …. Give him a real life …. A place to belong …. With people who had more right to care for him than she ever would ….

But, she also knew that these were the very reasons _**why**_ they should find out who he really was.

He could be a much loved son, brother, husband and father …. And somewhere there might be people already grieving for his loss.

With fingers shaking slightly, as much from fatigue as from nerves, she flipped open the wallet and was instantly greeted by the stern faced ID photo on his driving licence. A California driving licence, she noted …. No wonder he had such a wonderful tan.

His full name, she quickly learned, was Stringfellow Hawke.

And his occupation was listed, not surprisingly, as pilot.

However, the licence provided little else in the way of enlightenment. Just an address in Southern California that meant nothing to her and his strong, bold, flowing signature.

She did notice that the box marked Next Of Kin had been left blank.

"Stringfellow Hawke," she spoke the name softly. It sounded strange to her ears and felt strange on her lips. "Stringfellow …."

No wonder he preferred to simplify it to Hawke.

She flipped through the rest of the wallet, finding several large denomination dollar bills folded in the back, adding up to a couple of hundred dollars, a credit card, social security card ….

And a Stunt Pilot's Union Card.

And neatly folded behind the paper money, she found a receipt for aviation fuel from a little town over a hundred miles further North from Pine Valley, Elk Ridge County, higher up the Sierra Nevada Mountains, dated that day ….

No. Yesterday now.

His last stop ….

But it was the things that she did _**not **_find that both pleased and puzzled her.

There were no photos …. No snapshots …. No letters from a loving wife …. No love tokens …. Nothing personal …. How very military ….

_**Name, Rank and Serial Number …. **_

She could not help smiling softly to herself, realising that her own pocketbook was just as devoid of personal items. Driving licence, money, no credit card because she didn't believe in them, a few basic cosmetics, cologne…. Office keys. Car keys ….

Car keys.

That was something that she might have expected to find somewhere in his clothes, but there were none.

Still, his driving licence would provide enough information for the Police Department to be able to locate his home in California and his relatives ….

If he had any.

Fiona found that she was relieved.

She didn't know that much more about her patient than before, and she decided that if there was anything more to know, it would be up to him to tell her.

If he wanted to.

She knew all that she _**wanted**_ to know.

She had also discovered something else in the process ….

Something that she had thought was beyond her and would never need to be dealt with again.

She liked him.

She was attracted to him.

She _**cared**_ for him.

It would not take much for her to fall for him ….

He was attractive Handsome. Strong. Brave. Witty ….

All man.

Just what she _**didn't**_ need in her orderly, sterile life.

All the things she had avoided coming into contact with for the last nine years.

And in the space of a few short hours, she had learned that she was not as hardened, or as immune as she had believed.

Somehow, this young man had touched her heart …. And she had no idea what she was going to do about it.

If she could love again ….

She could also lose love again ….

She could be hurt again ….

If that were to happen, she did not think that she could survive it again.

The first time had been just too hard.

She had almost lost herself. Lost touch with reality. And the events this night had come pretty close to resurrecting those horrendous memories ….

Overwhelming her.

Finding Mitch …. Dying …. Trapped inside his downed helicopter, just feet away from the safety of the medical compound …. After having watched the crippled bird fall from the sky ….

Cradling him in her arms while he bled to death …. Nothing that she could do to help him ….

No-one in Pine Valley knew that she had once been engaged, or that she and her fiancé had served in Vietnam.

Nor did they know that her fiancé, Mitchell Haywood, had lost his life trying to deliver casualties to the field hospital where his fiancée was serving.

Seeing the helicopter tumbling through the trees tonight …. Finding Hawke barely alive and trapped inside the cockpit ….

It had taken her right back.

And that was why she had worked so damned hard to save him …. To keep him alive until help arrived and would not allow him to wallow in self pity.

He _**had**_ to survive …. Because if he had died there …. In her arms ….

She would have been completely lost …. Tipped over the edge into madness ….

Fiona closed her eyes briefly against the tears she suddenly felt stinging there.

She hadn't cracked up.

She hadn't lost it, and Hawke was very much alive.

_**But he wasn't Mitch ….**_

_**And she could not love him as she had once loved Mitch ….**_

Could she?

_**Could she?**_

No, she couldn't.

Aside from the fact that she did not know him, it was completely inappropriate behaviour for a doctor.

What she was feeling was simply compassion for her patient.

_**That was all ….**_

_**So why was she having such a hard time believing that?**_

It had been such a long time since she had felt anything except professional concern for another human being.

Now, here she was, confronted with very new and very raw emotions for a stranger who had fallen out of the sky.

_**She had to get a grip!**_

She wasn't some hormone driven teenager who couldn't control her emotions.

He needed her professional knowledge and experience …. But that was all.

He would breeze out of here as quickly as he had dropped in, and that would be the last that she would ever see or hear of him.

And that was how it should be.

He had his life, and she had hers, and he didn't need the added complication of her night terrors and neuroses to deal with.

He probably had more than enough of his own.

The legacy they all shared from Vietnam.

"Hey Doc, you'd better come out here," Sheila's voice penetrated her painful thoughts and Fiona snapped the wallet closed, rising from her seat, leaving her cooling coffee barely touched.

"What is it?"

"I think he's coming round," Sheila pointed out.

"Okay."

Fiona walked back to the examination room and watched for a moment as her patient began to breathe more deeply, his eyelids fluttering briefly.

He let out a soft moan and Fiona crossed to his side, taking his hand gently in her own and smiled softly and confidently down at him as he opened those lovely deep blue eyes at last.

"Hello again, remember me?"

"Fee …."

"That's right."

"Leg …."

"Fine …. Just fine," She assured. "Don't you fret any more. It's all over and soon you will be up and about," she squeezed his hand for emphasis. "And flying helicopters again, if that's what you want," she added, knowing that that was what he really needed to hear.

"Thank you," he managed groggily.

"Go back to sleep," she coaxed, fingers itching to reach out and caress his cheek …. Forehead …. "Do you need more pain relief?"

He made no answer, already having drifted back off to sleep, his handsome features relaxed in repose.

Fiona smiled and set his hand back down on the bed beside him, unaware of Sheila Clay's knowing smile as she watched from the doorway.

"Did you find any ID, Doc?"

Fiona jumped guiltily and span around to find Sheila framed in the doorway.

"Yeah …."

"So what's his name?"

Fiona went to the foot of the bed and lifted down the chart, where she wrote down her patient's full name, and Sheila came to look over her shoulder.

"What? Stringfellow?" She smirked. "That's a real mouthful any day of the week," She chuckled.

"And very unusual. Probably won't find many Stringfellow Hawke's in the phone book. So he shouldn't be very hard to find," Fiona sighed softly. "He'll sleep a while longer. So, why don't you go home, Sheila. I can manage for now, and I'll need you bright eyed and alert so you can relieve me …. tomorrow …. Today …."

"I'm okay, Doc. You're the one who needs the sleep, not me." Sheila protested mildly.

"I'll be alright. I'll grab forty winks later, on the cot over there, but I can't leave him just yet. Just in case. Besides, I'm used to these kinds of hours, Sheila. Go home, you'll be no use to your family in the morning if you don't get some sleep."

"They're all old enough and ugly enough to look after themselves, Doc," However she yawned long and loudly at that moment, and found herself grinning tiredly. "But …. If you _**insist **_…."

"Go on. I still have my notes to write up. I don't see any reason why we should both lose sleep. Thanks for all your help Sheila."

"You're welcome, Doc. It's nice to feel useful again. See you in the morning," she glanced down at her fob watch to check the time. "Make that see you again in about seven hours …." she groaned.

Sheila always started her shift at seven thirty in the morning, getting the office ready for when their first patients arrived at eight on the dot.

"Come in later tomorrow. To make up for tonight. I'll put a note on the door to say that regular surgery is cancelled and that I will only see emergencies."

"You sure, Doc?"

"Yup. And don't forget to bring me that donut …."

"You got it. Call if you need me …."

"I _**won't**_ need you. He's out for the count and hopefully he'll stay that way for a few hours."

"Okay."

"Good night, Sheila …."

"Good night, Doc …. Try to get some sleep if you can …."

"I will. Now get out of here …."


	8. Chapter 8

The rest of the journey to Pine Valley was uneventful

"_**Saint John!"**_

His screams split the silence of the early hours of the morning, bringing Fiona Cromwell rushing across the room.

She had fallen asleep at her desk in the office, slumped over his file, writing up the notes of his operation and his screams had rudely awoken her, sending most of the contents of the file flying to the floor.

"Easy Soldier. Your war's over," she reassured. "You're home. Safe."

She laid a cool hand against his over heated flesh and realised that he was reaching some kind of crisis because of the fever.

A fine sheen of perspiration covering his body.

Thrashing about wildly, in danger of pulling out the chest drain.

"Hush now. It's a dream. Not real," she soothed, placing her hands against his shoulders, gently pushing him back against the bed, trying to get him to keep still.

"_**Saint John!"**_

"Sshhh, Sshh, Stringfellow," he was pushing against her, so strong, eyes unfocused, certainly not seeing her as he fought against her, trying to sit up.

"Take it easy. You're home. You're safe. It's over, all over. Sshh. C'mon now, settle down. You're going to hurt yourself …. Undo all my hard work …. Dammit, stop fighting me …."

He was breathing hard, too quickly, hyperventilating and issuing the most heart wrenching sobs and low moans.

"Hawke, you have to calm down," she ordered, and not knowing what else to do to reach him, she sat down on the narrow bed beside him, slipped her arms around him and drew his strong, muscular, writhing body close to her own, supporting most of his upper body weight, leaning closer to him, mindful of his damaged ribs, desperately trying to hold his thrashing arms close to his body so that he would not pull out the IV needle and chest drain, which required all the strength she had.

"_**Saint John!"**_

Fiona realised that he wasn't actually fighting against her.

_**He was fighting for his life ….**_

_**Fighting to help someone he loved ….**_

"There, there, love, Sshh. It's okay, Stringfellow. You're okay," she assured, cradling him lovingly in her arms, much as she had done briefly, back there in the wreckage of the helicopter, rocking him gently, until with relief she felt him stiffen briefly against her and then let out a long sigh, relaxing against her warm body as she stroked the back of his head, fingers curling and uncurling lovingly in his hair, his chin slowly falling to rest heavily against her shoulder.

He grew still.

Quieter.

Eventually his breathing became more even and regular although still a little ragged.

He was calmer, but still muttering deliriously.

Carefully Fiona laid him back down against the sweat dampened pillows and covered him with a thin sheet, stroking his hair lovingly out of his eyes, feeling the heat radiating from his fevered brow as she did so.

She had to get his fever down.

It was imperative.

All the clever surgery in the world wouldn't matter if he died from an unrelated fever.

Waiting just long enough to reassure herself that he wasn't going to begin thrashing about again, and fall off the bed, Fiona went to the drug cupboard, unlocked it and found the drug she was looking for, drawing out the dose required into a clean syringe, one question on her mind as she did so ….

_**Who the hell is St John?**_

She returned to her patient, took his temperature, pulse and BP and administered the drug, then wrote the details down on his chart, noting the time. It was three fifteen am, and she had last looked at the clock at approximately one fifty five am.

His head was rolling from side to side, jerkily, and he was mumbling something incoherent, his eyes wide open, unseeing and glittering with fever and unshed tears.

Ideally, she should get him into a bath of cold water, try to get his temperature down, but with his leg now encased in plaster, the reality was that she simply could not carry or lift him on her own.

She would have to improvise.

So she went to the locker room and soaked all the clean towels that she could find in freezing cold water, rang them out roughly and then returned to her patient and placed the cold rolled up towels around his body, then draped one across his chest and placed a smaller folded cloth against his brow.

Wide awake now and knowing that she would not be able to get another wink, Fiona dried her cold hands and fetched Hawke's medical file, gathering up the papers that had fallen to the ground during her hasty departure, then she drew up a chair beside his bed, crossed her legs and rested the file against her knee, before continuing to write up her notes on his surgery.

After fifteen minutes she repeated the procedure with the towels again, soaking them in water as cold as she could stand and then ringing them out roughly and placing them around Hawke's body. She took his temperature and was pleased to see that it hadn't risen any more since the last time she checked then she sat down beside him once more and took his warm hand into both of her cold ones.

All the time he muttered and mumbled, his head moving jerkily from side to side, but she couldn't catch much of what he was saying.

Just the odd word here and there, although it was clear to see that whatever he was remembering …. Whatever place he had been transported back to …. It had been very distressing for him.

The most clear and often repeated words were the name ….

_**St John ….**_

Another very unusual name.

So what did this St John mean to Hawke?

Best friend?

_**Lover?**_

Why not?

She wasn't _**that **_naïve.

She knew how things were in the real world, especially in this day and age, with Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, AIDS, becoming so prominent in the world news.

Nor was she easily shocked.

She knew that in this life, one had to find love wherever one could …. With whomever one could ….

She would not judge him.

Whatever made him happy.

But it answered the questions she had about why he didn't have any happy family photos in his wallet.

So maybe he too had lost someone that he cared for ...

_**Loved …. **_

In that wretched jungle hellhole ….

As had so many others ….

Was that who he wore the bracelet for?

His lover?

Just because same sex relationships were taboo in the military, it didn't mean that they didn't exist.

And made not the slightest difference about the way she cared for him.

She held onto his hand for a few minutes more ….

Willing him to understand that she was there for him ….

Watching over him ….

And hoping that if he sensed that, somehow, it would help to chase the demons away.

Fiona repeated the procedure with the cold towels at fifteen minute intervals, until his fever finally broke at approximately five forty am and then she dried him off gently and carefully and covered him in a thin sheet, before returning to her seat, picking up the file and continuing with her notes.

Stringfellow Hawke came awake slowly …. Floating up through layers of swirling mist …._**Clouds? **_Dense at first, then thinning out ….

_**Was he flying?**_

He opened his eyes slowly and found that everything was swimming alarmingly and had a kind of fuzziness to it.

He wasn't exactly sure where he was .… But it wasn't an unpleasant place to be.

He was warm.

He felt safe.

He didn't think that he was dead.

No.

Shapes began to solidify …. Become more focused. He wasn't quite awake …. But he wasn't dreaming either ….

Because now he could _**feel**_ something ….

Discomfort ….

_**Pain**_ ….

Not the unbearable, excruciating pain that had overwhelmed him earlier ….

A sharpness in his chest and side whenever he breathed ….

A steady, rhythmical pounding in his head ….

And just a general sense of discomfort from his leg.

The room began to come more sharply into focus now and he turned his head slowly ….

To find _**her **_sitting beside him ….

_**His saviour ….**_

The angel of mercy who had stayed with him throughout his ordeal ….

Supporting him ….

Cajoling him ….

Guiding him ….

Guarding him ….

Protecting him ….

Holding him ….

Yes ….

_**Holding him ….**_

He vaguely recalled the feel of her body close to his own …. Warm and soft and so comforting …. Her arms, strong yet gentle, supportive yet affectionate ….

So she wasn't a dream after all.

She was real.

And she had a name.

_**Fiona.**_

He smiled dreamily and took a closer look at her.

She was sitting in a hard backed chair, positioned beside his bed, legs crossed over at the knee and a file resting precariously in her lap, her head bowed, chin resting on her chest.

Not too slender but not fat either, tall too, he recalled, roughly the same height as himself …. Her heart shaped face was framed by a cap of short dark brown hair ….

What colour were her eyes ….

He couldn't remember.

Not blue ….

They were dark …. Yes dark …. And deep ….

Green ….

A deep, moss green …. With specks of flashing gold ….

And they were beautiful ….

Windows to her soul ….

However at present they were closed.

She was sleeping.

She looked awfully uncomfortable ….

She was going to suffer for it when she woke up ….

She was also the most beautiful sight that he had ever seen.

The rising sun, streaming in from a small window across the room illuminating her, giving her an angelic aura.

Framing her with a golden glowing halo.

Hawke grinned sleepily to himself and wondered when he had begun to get so fanciful.

And then the grin began to falter ….

When he realised that more than anything in the world he wanted to reach out and take her hand ….

Caress her flawless cheek with his fingertips ….

Feel those soft pink lips against his rough, rugged cheek ….

His lips ….

Gather her into his arms and hold her tightly against him for the rest of their lives, so that nothing bad or frightening would ever come close to touching her …. Them. Again ….

_**Quit that!**_

He told himself sternly.

_**Get a grip ….**_

_**Must be the medication ….**_

He was still half out of it ….

Yet, even so ….

The half that was conscious and aware knew that it was more than just the effects of the drugs.

This woman had given so much of herself to save him.

To make him believe that he would survive.

To make sure that he did not give up. When that would have been the easiest thing.

She had even risked her own life to help him ….

Crawling around the twisted metal that had once been Dom's helicopter ….

Taking him in her arms and willing him not to give up ….

She had come to mean life its self to him.

Out there in the wild, stormy night.

It wasn't just gratitude he was feeling …. It was more ….

_**Much more ….**_

And it certainly wasn't the old cliché of the patient falling for the doctor.

He felt drawn to her in a way that he had not felt drawn to another human being in a very long time.

But he didn't understand why.

Maybe he wasn't _**meant **_to understand why.

Maybe he was just meant to accept that they were kindred spirits, having shared similar experiences in places that few other people even dreamed about.

That she understood him.

And he understood her too.

She had offered him more than her skills as a physician.

She had offered him compassion.

Understanding.

Affection.

Then suddenly, it hit him, like a punch in the solar plexus ….

It was her love that had saved him, up there on the mountain.

Her love that had enveloped him and helped him to accept what was happening to him, and to believe that he would come through it.

Her selfless, uncomplicated, unconditional love.

Freely given.

Neither asking for. nor expecting anything in return.

Except his trust.

His faith in her. And he had given it willingly.

Back in the V A Hospital when he had returned from Vietnam, he had heard the guys talking about similar things happening to them. How they had reached out to the doctor, or nurse attending to them, almost as if they were a life line, fearing that if they so much as let them out of their sight they would die, desperately needing to hold on to something real ….

Another human being ….

Hawke had put it down to medication, and relief at being out of that hellhole ….

But _**this**_ wasn't the same thing at all ….

_**Was it?**_

Some of those guys had even returned to the States and married their nurses.

Some of those marriages had even lasted. For a couple of years.

But this wasn't _**that**_ kind of love.

Not romantic love.

It was love borne out of empathy and compassion.

Not lust or attraction or romance.

_**So what exactly was it he was feeling?**_

_**Gratitude?**_

No.

It was more than that ….

_**So much more ….**_

It was like suddenly …. Out of the blue …. He had found a piece of himself that he had not been aware was missing all these years.

But it didn't make sense.

Until last night, they were strangers.

How could he have fallen in love with a stranger?

When for so long he had been so guarded, so careful about opening himself up to love with any woman ….

Maybe the bang on the head was more serious than he thought?

_**How could he love her?**_

He hardly knew her.

Although what he knew of her ….

He liked ….

She was strong. And brave.

Sassy and 'ornery.

Funny and beautiful and courageous ….

Warm and alive and so full of love and affection.

How was it possible to feel this way about someone he had only just met?

_**No ….**_

_**He couldn't love her ….**_

But, he realised, it wasn't beyond the realms of possibility that he could _**come**_ to love her.

It wouldn't take much. And maybe, just maybe, she could be persuaded to love him in return.

He could be mistaken, but he could have sworn that he had seen _**something**_ in her eyes.

Something that had made his heart soar. Something that had given him hope.

Something that he had been afraid to put a name too …. But he had seen _**something**_, nevertheless.

Maybe this time he could beat the jinx.

Maybe this time there _**could**_ be a happy ever after?

Maybe?

_**Sure …. **_

_**Maybe ….**_

_**If he wasn't Stringfellow Hawke ….**_

If the timing were different …. If he wasn't so committed to following one path …. Holding on to Airwolf until he got St John back ….

_**Dammit it just wasn't fair ….**_

How could he involve her in his dangerous, crazy life?

It was too much to ask.

Too much to hope for.

The risks were just too high.

And it was because he could so easily love her, that he simply could not expose her to those risks.

The constant threat. The constant danger.

And with that realisation also came the anger and the disappointment and the despair.

At what could so easily have been.

But now never would.

_**Dammit, was that how it was always going to be?**_

Glimpses of how it might be …. If he were a different man …. Living a different kind of life ….

Never to know the fulfilment, the complete happiness, contentment and heart bursting joy of loving and being loved by the right woman.

He knew the answer as surely as he knew his own name …. And he knew that the solution to the situation lay in his own hands, but, he could not allow himself that kind of happiness until St John was free at last.

Home.

And had a chance to experience the same things.

Until that happened …. Or he had proof positive that St John was dead, he would keep dodging bullets and risking his neck for Archangel …. Because, after all, he only had one brother. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood.

So what did it matter if a little of his own blood got spilled in pursuit of the truth about what happened to St John?

But there was no way that he would involve an innocent in that.

No matter how much he might be able to love her.

No matter how desperately he might crave that kind of love from her in return.

His own life meant little to him, but he would not be responsible for another innocent woman losing her life just because she had been unfortunate enough to cross his path.

Fiona must have nodded off, briefly, for she rudely woke herself up, jerking awake as she almost fell forward out of her chair, at six thirty am, feeling stiff and sore and as if she had grit in her eyes.

She looked down at her patient and found that he was awake, regarding her with clear, focused but sleepy blue eyes.

"Morning," he greeted her softly in a deep rich voice, his eyes full of gratitude …. And concern.

His large hand coming down to rest on top of hers as it lay on the bed beside him.

"Mmmmmm," Fiona carefully extracted her hand from his, and stretched gingerly, trying to ease the knots in her neck, shoulders and lower back, trying to hide her flaming cheeks as she wondering just how long he had been awake and watching her snooze.

"Ouch …." She complained when she felt a muscle pull at the base of her neck.

"You look like hell," he pointed out.

"Thanks for that. Great line in compliments you have there," Fiona found herself grinning back at him.

"How am I?" He grew serious now.

"How do you feel?" She smiled softly down at him, stretching her head and neck one way and then back the other to relieve the kinks in the muscles.

"Okay, I guess. A bit weak. A bit fuzzy. But okay," he sounded surprised.

"I'd say better than okay," Fiona chuckled.

She took his hand once more and checked his pulse, whilst laying the back of her other hand against his brow, which was mercifully much cooler than it had been a few hours before.

"You're temperature is down. You had a fever, but it broke about an hour ago …."

"You've been here, with me? All night?" She nodded in confirmation and made to move away. However, he applied pressure to her hand and she stilled, regarding him curiously. "Did I behave?" His question surprised her.

"You were a perfect gentleman," She confirmed with a soft smile.

"Damn," he grinned then grimaced as he felt the pain in his ribs briefly. "Feel like I wrestled a semi …."

"Not quite, but you did put rather a large dent in the mountain," she extracted her hand reluctantly and retrieving his chart began to fill in the details of his pulse. "Need any pain meds?"

"No," he grimaced once again and obviously thought better of it. "Yes. Thanks. Did I say thank you, Doc?"

"Yes. Several times …. And you are still very welcome."

"Did I dream it, or did you tell me that my leg was going to be alright?" He asked somewhat cautiously as she continued to write some notes on his chart.

"No, you didn't dream it," Fiona reassured. "It should be just fine. But you'll need to work on it. Exercise. Physical therapy. I had to put a couple of pins in to replace the shattered bone. But you don't need to worry about that now. Right now you need too keep still and take things easy, until your ribs mend. You'll have to keep the chest drain in for a little while yet," she advised. "So lie still and let us take care of you."

"Thank you."

The expression on his face and the tone of his voice touched her in a way no other patient ever had.

"Where's your nurse?" He asked, watching her replace the chart at the bottom of the bed.

"She'll be back on duty soon. Can I get you something in the mean time? You can have a sip of water if you're thirsty …."

"Gee, I can hardly wait, Doc, it's my leg that you operated on, not my stomach."

"I know, but I want to make sure you don't have any side effects from the anaesthetic, and that you are over your stomach upset. I don't want you throwing up all over me again …."

Hawke coloured most becomingly as he recalled the incident.

"I'm so sorry …."

"Don't be. Occupational hazard," she grinned, not adding insult to injury by telling him that it was usually babies that vomited over her shoulder, not grown men. "But not good for your ribs. Try and get some more sleep. You'll feel better when you've fully slept off the anaesthetic. But before you do, is there anyone I can call for you?"

"Dom. Dominic Santini. It was his helicopter …."

"Oh, okay."

Hawke gave her the telephone number of the office at Van Nuys airfield, in Los Angeles, and she assured him that she would call him in a little while.

"He'll be there right now. Probably been there all night. Worried out of his mind …."

"Okay," Fiona placated. "I'll go do it right now. Got any message for him?"

"Yeah …. Tell him that I love …." He caught himself up then before adding. "Tell him I'm sorry …. That I'm okay …. And he's not to come out here …."

"I'll be sure and tell him exactly that. You love him, you're sorry, you're okay and he's not to come. I'll be back in a moment with your meds and your water," she confirmed, feeling heat creeping into her own cheeks again now and so she turned sharply on her heel and walked out of the room, leaving Hawke feeling confused ….

Like he had definitely said something to hurt her …. But for the life of him, he didn't know what that could be.

Back in her office, Fiona Cromwell sat down behind her desk with a heavy sigh and stared at the telephone for several minutes, her fingers absently playing with the scrap of paper on which she had scribbled down the telephone number in Los Angeles that Hawke had just given to her.

She told herself that she was taking her time in calling, so that she could decide how best to break the news to the person on the other end of the line, calmly, professionally, ready to deal with their shock and then their relief.

But, if she were totally honest with herself …. She was afraid to make the call.

Afraid of what she might learn about Hawke's friend, Dominic Santini.

About the nature of their relationship.

When she eventually did reach out for the telephone, taking a deep breath and expelling it slowly, she could not help noticing that her fingers were shaking and her palms were slick with perspiration.

The telephone line rang out twice and was abruptly answered by a low, grumpy male voice.

"Santini …."

"May I speak with Mr Dominic Santini, please?"

"Who wants him?" The male voice growled.

"Mr Santini?"

"Yeah," he acknowledged grudgingly. "Look lady, I'm expecting a very important phone call, so can we make it snappy. Whatever it is, I ain't buying."

Fiona could almost see him putting the receiver down.

"Wait!" She yelped. "Please don't hang up, Mr Santini. I'm not selling anything," she said quickly. "My name is Fiona Cromwell, I'm a doctor up in Pine Valley. I'm calling about Stringfellow Hawke …."

"String!"

There was both anxiety and relief in his voice as he said that one simple word.

"What about him?" Now the voice was filled with trepidation.

Whoever this man was, and whatever he was to Stringfellow Hawke, it was clear to Fiona that he had been worried sick about him, and he cared very deeply for him.

"I'm afraid he's had an accident …. His helicopter crashed …."

"I knew it! Dammit …. Is he …. Dead?"

"Oh no, no Mr Santini. He's very much alive," she reassured quickly.

"Thank God for small mercies …." His relief was obvious.

"He has some pretty severe injuries, but he should make a full recovery." Fiona explained.

"How bad?" Santini demanded now.

"He has a pretty badly broken leg and ankle which required surgery, several cracked ribs and a minor concussion …. "

"Geez …."

"He also had a pretty high fever, but it broke early this morning. He's still dopey from the drugs and will be weak and need to rest for a while, but he should be just fine, Mr Santini. He asked me to give you a message. He said to tell you that he loves you, he's sorry, he's fine …. and you are not to come up here …."

"_**Like hell**_!" Santini exploded and Fiona found herself smiling softly.

She liked him.

He sounded like a much older man, but he still possessed the Latin fire suggested by his Italian sounding name.

"He's in good hands, Mr Santini," she assured. "However, if you did want to up come here, we would make you very welcome …."

Then she gave him the address of her office and the telephone number in case he wanted to call back to get an update on Hawke's condition later.

"Thanks, doctor …."

"Cromwell. Fiona Cromwell." She smiled again. "Is there anyone else I should call? Family?"

"No. I'm all the family he has, but thanks …."

"You're welcome, Mr Santini."

"You're sure he's gonna be alright?"

"I'm sure," she almost grinned.

"Then you tell him I'm gonna kill him! Causing me all this worry. You tell him I'm gonna kick his ass from here to Canada and back again …. You tell him he's gonna have to work his tail off for the rest of his life to pay for a new chopper …." He was all bluster now. "You tell him …. Tell him …."

"I'll tell him you love him and you're glad he's alright …." Fiona could not stop herself from grinning then.

"Yeah …. You do that …. And thanks again, Doc …."

"Again, you're welcome Mr Santini …. Goodbye."

Less than ten seconds after he had set the phone down from talking to the lady doctor from Pine Valley, Dominic Santini was on the horn to Marella.

At first he had thought about just grabbing his hat and jacket and jumping into the first helicopter he could get out of the hangar and leave Archangel and his buddies blowin' in the breeze ….

But then he had a fit of conscience …. Recalled what Marella had said about levelling with them, and the promise he had made …. And he knew that it was because of him that the Firm was involved at all.

"Thanks Mr Santini. I'll check it out. Are you going up there?" Marella asked softly.

"What do you think?" His tone was incredulous now.

"I think you should come here, to Knightsbridge. That way we can all go up there together," she suggested.

"You flying up?"

"What do you think?"

"Then you can come by here and pick me up. String will need some stuff. Clean clothes, that kind of thing. He keeps some stuff in a locker here."

"Alright Mr Santini. Archangel will be in the office in about fifteen minutes and I'm sure we will be on our way straight after that …."

"I'll be ready for you …."

"I'm sure he'll be fine, Mr Santini …."

"Yeah, that's what this Doctor Cromwell said. She sounded like a nice, sincere lady."

"I'm sure she is. Look, Mr Santini, I have to go now, but we should be with you within the hour …."

"I'll be ready …."

Dominic Santini set down the telephone receiver and let out a deep sigh. No doubt Marella was already on the horn checking out Pine Valley, California and Dr Fiona Cromwell.

_**That was the trouble with spooks …. **_

_**They just didn't know when to quit spying ….**_

What did it matter now?

_**String was safe …. **_

They knew where he was.

They would soon have him home.

And with a little Santini TLC he would be up and about in no time.

Fiona Cromwell was still smiling when she returned to the examination room with a small plastic cup of water for Hawke and a stainless steel kidney dish bearing a filled hypodermic syringe of morphine.

Hawke's eyes were closed but he must have heard her coming for he opened them as she drew close to him.

"What's so funny, Doc?" He asked when he saw her beautiful smile.

"Your friend, Mr Santini …. He's a real sweetheart …." She chuckled, putting the kidney dish down on a trolley beside the bed and reaching out to support Hawke's head, offered him the cup of water.

"Small sips. Slowly," She told him. "Just enough to moisten your mouth …."

He swallowed greedily, his throat hot and dry and raw.

"Hey, I said easy," she withdrew the cup and her supporting hand and his head flopped back gently against the soft, plumped up pillows. "You can have some more in a couple of hours, if you keep that down …."

"I can hardly wait," Hawke grouched. "So how was Dom?"

"Relieved to know that you are safe and sound. I gave him your message and he had a few choice words for you too," she grinned. "And you know he's coming up here, don't you …."

"Yeah, I know," Hawke looked uncomfortable. "So what did the old coot have to say for himself?"

"He said, and I quote 'tell him I'm gonna kick his ass all the way to Canada and back for making me worry …. And he's gonna have to work his tail off for the rest of his life to pay for a new chopper ….'"

"That sounds like Dom," Hawke wrestled with a smile, genuine affection dancing in his deep blue eyes.

"He loves you very much. Should I put him down as your next of kin?"

"He's not blood family …. But I guess he's all I've got …."

"Mind if I ask you a personal question, Captain?"

"Go ahead …. Can't promise I'll answer though …."

"Who is St John?"

"How do you know about St John?" He demanded, his face darkening ominously now.

"Easy Solider. You were delirious with fever, And you were calling out for him," she explained gently. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked …. I just thought maybe he was someone very dear to you and that maybe I could contact him for you …."

"Good luck, he's been MIA in 'Nam for fifteen years," Hawke let out a slow ragged breath then. "But you're right about him being dear to me. St John is my brother …."

"I'm sorry. It's none of my business …."

"No, it's not …. But I guess you know what it's like. You were there. You lost someone too?"

"Yes," she hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether to tell him or not.

She hadn't told anyone about Mitch for a long time, knowing that unless they had been there, or they had lost someone themselves under similar circumstances, they would never truly understand.

"My fiancé, Mitch," she finally said with a deep sigh.

He watched her silently, expectantly, for a moment and she could not help wondering if he was thinking of his brother again.

"Mitch was a helicopter pilot too. One day, just before the fall of Saigon, he was coming back to the field hospital with a chopper full of casualties, and his bird caught a rocket grenade. It crashed, just short of the compound and all of us medics went rushing out to the crash site to see if we could help. Mitch was trapped, much like you were last night …. But unlike you …. I couldn't save him …. He bled to death …. in my arms …."

"I'm sorry …." And Fiona had to admit that he did look genuinely sorry.

"Maybe you knew him? Mitchell Haywood?"

Hawke grew thoughtful for a moment, but then shook his head regretfully. It wasn't a name he remembered from that time. There had been so many guys out there ….

Unless they were a part of your immediate crew or ground crew, or you flew with them regularly, it was hard to know who was who ….

"Doesn't matter," she felt tears prick at her eyes then.

_**Was she destined to be the only one who would remember him? **_

_**Poor Mitch ….**_

Not much of a legacy.

"He'd have been a lot older than you," she continued when she felt in control of her emotions once more. "He was five years older than me …. Which would make him about forty five now …."

"Maybe St John knew him …." He offered weakly.

"Maybe …." But she realised that it was a long shot. She took a deep breath and reached for the syringe in the kidney dish. "Still want this?"

"Mmmm. Yes, please …." But he regarded the syringe dubiously.

"Don't worry, I've already begun reducing the dose. You won't get hooked," She assured.

"Thanks …."

"But this should still take the edge off. So, since I'm being nosy …. Tell me about Mr Santini …." She invited, bearing down on him with the loaded syringe.

"It's Dominic, or Dom …. Not _**Mr Santini**_ …." He advised her with a smile. "He was my father's oldest friend. They served together in the second world war. My …. Our parents died, when I was a kid …. Dominic took St John and I under his wing …. Became a surrogate father to us …. Now he and I work together. Santini Air is Dom's business …. And the chopper I crashed was his prime asset," he cringed at the thought of the pile of twisted, brightly coloured metal sitting on the muddy mountainside somewhere.

"You didn't crash it on purpose. I'm sure he'll understand that," She reassured. "You're a stunt pilot?"

"Amongst other things. Flying stunts for television and movies is just one of the things Dom and I do. We're aerial photography specialists. We fly fixed wing aircraft as well as choppers, and we give lessons, offer charters …. I was also a test pilot a very long time ago …. in another life …."

"Sounds like flying is your life. Well, you'll be flying again in no time," she assured, placing the now empty syringe back in the kidney dish. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I should go put up a notice on the front door saying I'm only seeing emergencies today, or else you'll have half of Pine Valley traipsing through here sightseeing," she grinned. "Should I have Sheila bring you another sedative when she comes on duty?"

"No. I'm already beginning to feel woozy again …." He confessed, giving her a dopey smile.

"The morphine. Off you go then, into the arms of Morpheus …. And this time, Stringfellow, I hope your dreams are more …. Pleasant …." Her smile was genuinely warm.

"String. It's just String …. Fiona …."

"Okay, String. Sweet dreams," she smiled softly, liking the sound of her name on his lips.

"You should take your own advice. Get some sleep …."

"_**Me**_ doctor. _**You **_patient," she grinned softly then. "But, I intend to do just that when Sheila gets here. So you behave yourself and mind your manners, or you'll soon discover that Sheila has ways and means of handling patients who get a little rowdy," She chuckled. "Sleep well, String …."

"You too, Fee."


	9. Chapter 9

Dominic Santini sat in uncomfortable silence in the back of the Firm's pristine white helicopter, which was being ably piloted by Marella, with Michael Coldsmith Briggs III seated beside her up front.

There had been little in the way of greeting when he had climbed into the back of the helicopter and put on his earphones, a frosty look from Archangel and Marella's softly uttered estimated time of arrival at Pine Valley, and as their journey had progressed, Dominic Santini had formulated the opinion that the Firm's Deputy Director of Special Projects was one very unhappy man.

Archangel sat rigidly in his seat, spine straight, shoulders set stiffly.

His posture would have made his Mamma proud.

Else he had broom handle shoved up his jacket, Santini mused silently.

However, his rigid silence was something that Dominic Santini had come to associate with suppressed anger in the man, and the older man had a feeling that whatever it was about.

Archangel was saving it to vent on Stringfellow Hawke.

"Michael, "Santini spoke at last, unable to bear the silence any longer. "Hawke didn't do this on purpose …."

"Dominic, he didn't _**need**_ to do it at all," Archangel replied succinctly. "All he had to do was pick up the telephone," his voice was low and throbbing with barely suppressed anger. "But he preferred to believe hearsay from an old 'buddy' to getting official clarification from me …."

_**Oh, so that was what was eating the government man ….**_

Archangel thought that Hawke did not trust him ….

_**Maybe he was right ….**_

Santini let out a deep sigh.

_**Half right ….**_

When they were working …. When they were on missions …. Hawke, he knew, trusted Archangel implicitly ….

He had to ….

Things didn't always go according to plan, but that wasn't Michael's fault …. And he could always be trusted to haul their buns out of the fire and keep the heat generated by the Committee off their backs.

"Like I said …. This is personal …. And you know how he gets about anything to do with St John. No matter what anyone said, Hawke wouldn't have believed it until he saw it with his own eyes."

Archangel made no reply, and Santini took that to mean that he knew it was the truth.

"Stubborn …. Bull-headed …. 'Ornery …. Argh!" Santini let out another deep sigh. "Don't think I'm not mad as all hell with him. Mamma Mia! Under this calm exterior …. But I know what makes him tick, and even if I don't like it, I know when to let him do what he has to do. I've been run over by that steam roller one time too many in the past, when I tried to talk sense into him. Who knew the chopper would crash …."

"Things are different now, Dominic. Our agreement," Archangel reminded succinctly.

"That doesn't mean that you have total control over his life, Michael."

"That's _**not **_what it means, and you _**know **_it …. But he can't just go off half cocked like that. I don't care _**what**_ he does …. _**Where**_ he goes …. _**How**_ he gets himself _**killed ….**_ Just so long as I know he's not available to fly. What if we had needed him to fly a mission …."

"Oh Gee Michael, there I was thinking you were getting all sentimental over Hawke, concerned for his health, when all you're really worried about is protecting your asset and not having access to Airwolf when you want it!"

"We have a deal …."

"Deal Schmiel! You _**know**_ what St John means to Hawke. That's part of the reason _**why **_you have this deal …. But nobody ever said anything about Hawke not being able to follow his own leads. His own path. And I don't see you bitching when he's in danger of being killed on _**your**_ time …."

"Just remember who has to pick up the pieces, Dominic …."

"_**Me**_, that's who. _**Always me**_. First, last and always, Michael and that's how it's always been. I didn't have to tell you guys where he was, did I? But I thought I owed it to you. I could have been half way there now, and left you guys hanging in the wind …. But I asked you for help, so I thought I owed it to you to let you know that Hawke was safe. _**This**_,"

Santini waved his hand around the cabin to indicate the helicopter.

"This is all down to you. No one asked you to lay on the fancy chopper and go charging in there to his rescue. That's _**my **_job, Michael. I could have handled it just fine."

"Archangel …. Mr Santini …. "This came from Marella now. "Surely the most important thing is that we know where Hawke is, and that he is out of danger," she casually reminded. "Hawke's life is his own to do with as he pleases …. But …."

She faltered slightly, noting the sharp look coming at her from her boss.

"I think I am right in saying that a little consideration goes a long way. On both sides," she added for good measure.

"Archangel isn't saying that Hawke should be at our beck and call. Just that we need to know when he is available to fly. When he is willing …. to fly for us …. So that we can make alternative arrangements. When Hawke is up and about, I'm sure we can all sit down and thrash out the finer details. Set more definite parameters …."

"That's a good idea. Then we'll all know where we stand …." Archangel agreed.

"Okay," Santini sighed and sat back in his seat. "So, what did you find out about the guy at the VA Hospital? I _**know**_ you checked it out …."

"Of course I did Dominic, I am nothing if not a _**thorough**_ man …." Archangel smiled coyly then. "This man might have borne passing resemblance to St John, but, there was also never any possibility that he actually _**was**_ St John. Or that St John was one of the men rescued from Laos." He confirmed.

"To start with, none of them had been MIA for as long as St John. They were all taken at the same time, in the days just before the fall of Saigon and marched into the jungle. I'm sorry Dominic …. None of them knew anything at all about St John …. And I could have told Hawke this …. If he had just called me …."

"But he didn't …. Get over it, Michael …." Santini grinned. "What did you find out about the lady doctor?" He gave the government agent a knowing look. "I know a _**thorough man**_ like you would have checked out her credentials too …"

"I certainly did," Archangel confirmed. "By all accounts she is very competent and experienced …."

"That's it? Competent and experienced?"

"The rest is …. Classified …."

"Classified? Some hick country doctor …."

"She was more than that …. A long time ago …. Army Medical Corps."

"Don't tell me …. Vietnam, right?"

"You know I _**can't **_tell you. Just take my word for it, she knows what she's doing, and leave it at that."

"I knew he'd be all right. That boy …. Even when he falls in a manure pile, he still manages to come up smelling of roses," Santini chuckled and Archangel rolled his eyes heavenward. He suddenly had an awful feeling that it was going to be a very long and tedious journey.

"What's our ETA?" Archangel asked Marella giving her a pointed look that said if she could get them there in half the time he might even think about getting out and pushing ….

Or doubling her salary.

"We'll be there in about an hour, Sir," she confirmed, desperately trying to hide a grin.

"Oh …."

"So, what's the plan?" Dominic inquired innocently.

"Plan?"

"Michael, I'm not so dumb that I believe we're just gonna turn up with grapes and say hi String, how ya doing!"

"It's all in hand, isn't that right, Marella?"

"Yes Sir. It's all in hand …."

"Don't tell me …. It's classified …."

"Oh no …. NTK …." Santini frowned at this.

"NTK?" Santini mused aloud, then suddenly realisation dawned in his clear blue eyes …." NTK …. Need to know …. And I don't …."

"Need to know …." Archangel and Marella said together and laughed.

Fiona Cromwell retired to her office and was more than happy to allow Sheila Clay to deal with the routine of the day.

Sheila had arrived at eight thirty, looking tired and less than her usual enthusiastic self, but she smiled cheerfully at Fiona as she asked after their VIP patient's health and fixed a fresh pot of coffee.

Fiona had put up a sign on the clinic door announcing that surgery was cancelled for that day, and she had already turned away a couple of patients before Sheila arrived.

When the doorbell chimed again, Fiona asked Sheila to go deal with it, while she sat at her desk and tried to compose the report that she had to write for the Police Department and the city council.

When she looked up a few moments later, she found Dan McEwan blocking the office doorway with his bulk, hitching up his pants and regarding her with kindly grey eyes.

She knew that she looked far from her best, her hair was uncombed and her scrubs were wrinkled and creased, her face was pale and the fine laughter lines around her eyes had deepened due to lack of sleep, but still he was standing there looking at her as if she was the most beautiful creature in the world.

She blessed him silently.

It was just the kind of confidence boost she needed about now.

"Did you get much sleep?" He asked with genuine concern.

"No. An hour here …. An hour there …." She shrugged absently. "He had a bit of a crisis in the night, but he's over that now," she smiled tiredly back at him, then noticed the flight bag he was carrying. "Is that his?"

"Yeah, the guys fished it out of the wreckage when they sealed the scene last night and I had it in the back of the car, so I thought I would drop it by before I went into the office."

"I've got a name for you. Stringfellow Hawke," she opened the desk drawer and took out Hawke's wallet.

"Now there's a name to conjure with. Geez, why do parents do that kinda stuff to their kids?"

"There's a driver's licence and some cash …. Not much else, but you can get the address from the driver's licence."

"Thanks. He up to visitors?"

"He may be sleeping. I'll just go check …."

She rose from the desk and moved around it slowly, knowing that she was going to have to pass him to get out of the office.

"I guess you need a statement from him too …."

"Yeah …."

"I was just working on mine …."

"No rush. It's not like you're gonna be leaving town in a hurry …."

"Do you need me to do post mortems on the kids from the RTA?"

"I guess. We'll need official confirmation of their blood alcohol levels, if nothing else, for the inquest. Fiona," he reached out for her hand as she drew level with him.

"Dan …. Please …."

"Look, you know I care for you …."

"Dan this isn't the time or the place for this conversation …."

"It's way past time for this conversation Fiona, so, let an old guy get it off his chest," she nodded slowly, seeing the determination written on his face.

He drew in a deep breath and continued.

"You know I care for you …."

Fiona could not help wondering where this conversation was going, and how long he had been rehearsing it.

"I always will …. No matter what …. We're friends …. But …." He paused for a moment, however, Fiona had the good sense not to try to interrupt him again.

She wanted to know what was on his mind.

Maybe he had opened the door for her to try to make him understand that she could never feel the things for him that he wanted from her.

"I guess I finally understand that that is _**all**_ we are. Friends."

"I'm sorry …."

"Don't be. I'm very glad to have you as a friend, Fiona. You're a very special lady …."

"I'm glad to have you as a friend too, Dan. I just didn't know how to tell you. You seemed so determined to try to make it something more …. And I didn't want to hurt you."

"I know. Can't blame a guy for trying. Still, I can't blame you for not wanting to saddle yourself with an old geezer like me …"

"That has nothing to do with it Dan," she protested, although they both knew that it was not quite the whole truth. "If I'm honest. If we're _**both**_ honest. We both know that you aren't over Sadie yet …"

"True …."

He looked both sad and disappointed all at the same time.

"Fiona, you're still young. You should be with a young man …. Who can give you babies …."

"Dan," She flushed now, very becomingly he thought and he knew that he was probably the biggest fool in the County for doing what he was about to do ….

"You should be with a young man. Like him. Like this Stringfellow Hawke fella …"

"Dan …. Don't be ridiculous …. I didn't know he existed until last night …." she was flustered now, and Dan McEwan knew that he had been right about what he had seen in her eyes last night.

"Never heard of love at first sight?"

"That's crazy …." She protested.

"Me think the lady doth protest too much."

"Oh Lord, now he's quoting Shakespeare at me …. at nine thirty in the morning, I can't deal with that …." She chuckled softly, hoping to distract him.

"You probably didn't study it at Medical School …. But it isn't unheard of you know, Fiona …. And you're just as human as the rest of us. Maybe _**he's**_ not the one for you, but it's high time you got out there and found _**someone **_…. Someone to share your life with, someone to make you happy. You can't hide yourself away forever. I don't know what it was that made you turn in on yourself and shy away from living …. But it's way past time that you came out from that shell of yours and took life by the scruff of the neck . In every other respect you have guts and gumption and more courage than any man I've ever known …. But in this …. I've come to the conclusion that you don't believe that you are worth loving …. And that you don't believe that your love is worth giving …. Offering …. That's just not true, darlin'. Any man would be honoured and proud to love you and have you love him …. _**I know**_."

"Dan …. Please …."

Her eyes implored him to stop, but he was in full swing now and he was going to give her both barrels ….

Because it was probably going to be the only chance he was going to get.

"You have so much to give. To the right man …. And although you may not yet be ready to accept it, I think that man just fell out of the sky and straight into your lap. It's fate. You can't fight it. How many other nights would you have been on that stretch of road, at that time? If you'd left the Preston place ten minutes earlier, or ten minutes later …." He asked gently, drawing a breath before continuing.

"And I saw the look on your face last night. That wasn't just the concerned doctor fretting over her patient. I've seen that look before. Sadie had it, every time there was an incident with firearms and I had to go out and try to calm the situation. Every time she believed I was in danger …. Oh she'd try to pass it off as gas, or indigestion or some such, but I knew. I knew she loved me and she was worried for my safety …. And I know that that's what I saw last night Fiona. So don't fight it. Open yourself up to at least believing that it could be possible …. And do it soon, because, take it from me, there's nothing like being all alone in your old age …."

"Oh Dan …."

Fiona was completely taken aback. It was the longest speech that she had ever heard him make ….

And, she realised ….

A lot of it made sense ….

She felt a lump rise in her throat and she knew that she had to get out of there before she broke down completely.

He was far more sensitive and astute than Fiona had ever believed possible.

He raised her hand gently and pressed his lips against the tender, warm flesh and again she blushed.

"Lecture over, honey," he smiled gently down at her. "Except …. You're a lovely young woman, Fiona, and you are worthy of being loved. You deserve to be loved, so accept that love when the right man offers it to you. Don't freeze him out, or you might not get another chance …."

He pressed his lips to the back of her hand once more, then released it, and stepped back slightly to allow her to pass, which she did rather more hastily than he had anticipated, and he knew that he had gotten to her.

In her hurry, Fiona almost collided with Sheila Clay in the narrow corridor outside her office and could not fail to see the curious look in the older woman's eyes as she noted the hot flush on her employer's cheeks.

"Sheila, is Mr Hawke awake?"

"In and out …."

"Right now?"

"He just hit on me for some more water …."

"Fine, he can have another 10 cc's in about a half an hour. Will you show Chief McEwan in to see Mr Hawke …."

And with that she dashed into the ladies room and locked herself in one of the stalls.

_**Dammit, was she so transparent!**_

_**Did everyone know how weak and foolish she was!**_

_**Why didn't she just wear a damned sign around her neck!**_

Yet even as the hot tears rolled unchecked down her flushed cheeks, Fiona could not help recognising the grain of truth in Dan McEwan's words.

She _**was**_ still young.

Young enough to start a family, with the right man.

Young enough to start over again.

But older and wiser ….

And stronger ….

Better able to deal with the good times and the bad.

Because that was what being alive was all about.

And now she knew that she had merely been existing ….

And yes ….

She was worthy of being loved ….

Deserved and needed to be loved ….

And even if Stringfellow Hawke turned out _**not**_ to be the man for her, at least she would always have him to thank for reminding her that she was human and needed all the things that other women needed.

That she did have a heart after all ….

Capable of giving love ….

Capable of accepting love in return ….

And yes ….

Capable of being broken ….

But, now she knew that a broken heart would not kill her ….

Mitchell Haywood had been dead for a very long time, and she had closed herself off to the possibility of loving someone else and being loved as deeply by someone else, because the pain of losing him had been almost more than she could bear.

She had loved him so much ….

_**Yet her love hadn't been able to save him ….**_

He would have been so disappointed in her ….

And she had done him a huge disservice ….

He of all people had understood her capacity to love ….

He would have been so disappointed and hurt, that his death had caused her to close her self off, prevented her from giving that precious love to someone else.

She knew that now ….

But now she didn't know if she would be able to move beyond that …. And learn to believe ….

Learn to open up her arms and her heart and let someone penetrate that ice wall around her heart ….

Learn to trust ….

But one thing was for sure, she couldn't go on living in fear of loving and of being loved.

She couldn't go on blaming herself for not being able to save Mitch …. Nothing could have saved him. Not all the love. Nor all the specialized medical care in the world.

His injuries had just been too devastating.

And he would have been the first to tell her that she hadn't died along with him that day ….

Those had been exceptional circumstances …. A situation she would never encounter again ….

Yet, last night ….

Yes, last night ….

She had looked into a young man's eyes and seen something that had touched her so deeply ….

It had rocked her to her very soul.

She had seen herself reflected back in his beautiful blue eyes.

Seen that he too had experienced pain and loss and heartache.

That his heart was also encased in ice.

That he was a kindred spirit.

A soul crying out to be touched by another.

But afraid to give into that need because it might ultimately result in more pain and heartache and loss ...

How could two such damaged people possibly have a chance at being happy together?

Yet ….

_**Why not?**_

They each understood how the other felt .

Could it be possible?

Could it really be Fate?

If it was indeed Fate ….

Then Fate was a fickle thing …. And she had lousy timing ….

And there were a couple of things she hadn't taken into account.

The first one being, Fiona had no idea how Hawke felt.

_**Didn't she?**_

Well ….

If the looks he had been giving her were anything to go by …. There was _**something**_ there ….

But he was just as confused about it as she was.

And she couldn't shake the feeling that he had been trying to tell her something really important when he had joked with her.

Telling her not to get too close to him.

Because he was jinxed.

_**What was that all about?**_

And the timing was lousy because right now he was vulnerable …. Feeling his mortality.

Circumstances had thrown them together and it was only natural that there would be some kind of bond between them.

A connection.

Patients often fancied that they had fallen in love with their doctors or nurses …. It was a well known phenomenon ….

She had seen it happen many times. Although it had never happened to her before.

But it didn't follow that he would feel the same way when he was well. When he was strong. When life had returned to normal and he was hundreds of miles away.

However, there was one other barrier that was even more important.

One taboo that she could never be enticed to break.

_**He was her patient ….**_

And medical ethics dictated that there could be no personal relationship between doctor and patient.

It was a safe guard as old as time its self that protected patients from the unwanted attentions of over zealous doctors and doctors from accusations of improper behaviour toward their patients.

It was a sacred trust.

As sacred as the oath she had taken when she first became a doctor.

She could not …. _**Would **_not betray that trust.

She had already strayed a little too close to that very fine line.

_**But he wouldn't always be her patient ….**_

A little voice in the back of her mind taunted her.

But by then it wouldn't matter. He would be miles away. Getting back to his life.

A life in which there would be no place for her.

She would just be someone that he would remember kindly. Someone he would always be grateful to for being there for him when he needed help.

But that was all.

And that was as it should be.

If she were not so emotionally fragile herself …. If the circumstances of their meeting had not been so poignant …. Had not opened up old wounds ….

Then the very last thing that she would have been thinking about right now was what the future might hold for her.

With this man.

There was no future …. No happy ever after ending ….

And she would be a fool to believe that anything could come of their meeting.

She had to pull herself together.

She had to get a grip ….

Because if she didn't she was setting herself up for a whole heap of heartache and grief.

Fiona washed her face and then discreetly made her way to the ladies locker room where she changed into clean scrubs and pulled a comb roughly through her hair.

By the time she was ready to return to her office, her mask of calm, professional aloofness was firmly back in place and she felt confident to return to her duties, after giving herself a stern ticking off about letting her imagination run away with her.

A quick glance into the examination room revealed that Dan McEwan had gone, and her patient was dozing quietly.

Fiona could hear Sheila humming softly in the sluice room amid the sounds of running water and the clattering of instruments going into the autoclave, and she knew that the task of sterilising the instruments they had used last night would occupy the other woman for a little while yet, so Fiona decided to go back to her office to try to tackle her report.

However, before she got there, the front door bell chimed once more, and feeling just a little irritated at the interruption, Fiona decided to deal with the caller herself.

She opened the door expecting to find one of her patients and was therefore surprised to find two men and a woman standing on the door step, and to see an Oak Valley Memorial Hospital ambulance, reversing into her parking bay.

She frowned as an officious looking man dressed from head to foot in white, even down to his cowboy boots and Fedora hat, leaning heavily on a rosewood cane and wearing eye glasses with one lens blacked out, stepped forward and asked:

"Are you Dr Fiona Cromwell?"

"Yes," Fiona replied, a little disconcerted when he thrust an official looking ID in her face then withdrew it before she had time to really digest what it said.

"We're here to see Stringfellow Hawke," he was already pushing his way over the threshold as he spoke and Fiona could do nothing but step back to allow him to enter.

"Mr Santini?"

"That's me …."

A slightly older man with a rotund belly and jovial smile stepped forward from where he had been standing behind the dark haired woman who, Fiona now noted, was also dressed completely in white.

She reached out to take the hand he was offering in greeting but got jostled out of the way as two male orderlies dressed in white pushed past her, steering a gurney.

"What the devil …."

"Would you kindly tell us where Mr Hawke is …." This from the man in white now.

"Through here," Fiona felt dizzy just watching the crowd gathering in her hallway. "Would someone mind telling me what is going on here?"

"We've come to take Mr Hawke home."

"What! That's impossible!" She protested. "By what authority? He's far too weak to be moved …."

"I think you will find that this gives me all the authority I need …."

The man in white once again flashed his ID, and this time she caught sight of the government seal on the shield.

"Not that we aren't very grateful for what you've done for Mr Hawke …. But we have more …. modern facilities …."

"Mister, the local vet has more modern facilities than I do, but most of my patients don't complain. How _**dare**_ you just march in here like this …."

"Hey Doc …. What's going on?" Sheila Clay stepped out of the sluice room, drawn by the sound of the commotion in the corridor, a puzzled look on her face. "You okay, Doc?"

"Yes Sheila, I'm fine. These people are here for Mr Hawke …."

"Should I show them in?"

"I don't see that we have any choice," Fiona sighed deeply, knowing that she no longer had any control over the situation.

"Thank you doctor …."

The man in white addressed her, holding out a sheaf of papers.

"We have everything arranged. Mr Hawke will be transferred to Oak Valley Memorial Hospital, where doctors will examine him, and then he will be flown by air ambulance back to Los Angeles. Here is the required paperwork. You should submit your invoice for all treatment and drugs used to the address on the bottom of the last page …."

The group began to move off, following Sheila Clay.

"Hey, wait a minute, you can't all go in there," Fiona called after them, recovering her wits.

"Marella …. You'd better go in and make sure Hawke really is fit to travel …." The man in white spoke to the dark haired beauty. "She is a doctor…." He then explained to Fiona and noted Dominic Santini's startled look.

"Fine, then she won't mind my coming with her. Professional courtesy."

The woman, Marella shook her head, setting her halo of dark curls bouncing around her shoulders and indicated with an outstretched hand that Fiona should lead the way.

When the women had gone, Dominic Santini turned to Archangel and gave him a pointed look.

"What?"

"I told you this wasn't right," Santini grouched. "We should have called first, Michael. There's no need to be so damned heavy handed …."

"Dominic, it had to be done …."

"It didn't have to be done like _**this**_. I'm so embarrassed. I want it known that I had absolutely nothing to do with this …."

"So noted."

"It really didn't have to be like this, Michael. String would be mortified if he knew what you're doing in his name. _**I'm mortified**_. This is no way to show gratitude," he shook his head in despair.

"You could always wait outside …."

"You didn't tell me Marella was a doctor …."

"Well, she isn't …. Not quite …. She has another year or so of school before she gets her degree, in medicine, but she is a doctor of psychology."

Dominic Santini rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation, knowing that there was no point in making a fuss.

They were here to take String home and that was all that he cared about.

He held his tongue, but the look he gave Archangel spoke volumes.

In the examination room, Marella, Sheila and Fiona walked over to where Stringfellow Hawke lay, eyes closed, face relaxed in sleep.

Fiona could not help wondering if this would be the last time she ever saw him …. as she lifted down his chart from the foot of the bed and silently handed it to the dark haired woman, who flipped through it and read each line very carefully, without comment.

Sheila Clay hovered discreetly near the door, watching the proceedings until Fiona quietly asked her to go and fetch Hawke's belongings from her office.

"Thank you. That seems fine," Marella said, handing back the chart. "You did a good job. I think it's safe to move him …. But rest assured, he will be monitored all the way. He'll receive only the best care …."

Fiona merely nodded.

She didn't think that the other woman had meant to insult her …. Or imply that Hawke had not received the best care at her hands, but it still stung her like a slap in the face.

Marella beckoned the orderlies into the examination room now and the clattering of the wheels of their gurney on the cold tiled floor caused Hawke to stir from his slumber, and he opened his eyes to find Marella standing over him, smiling reassuringly.

"It's alright String. We're here to take you home."

"Home …." He slurred drowsily, confusion written on his face, then recognition ….

Then he looked frantically around seeking out Fiona.

He spotting her at last, standing a little way away from the bed. The look on her face told him clearly that she was not happy with this development, but that she also had no way of stopping it.

He wanted to tell her that it wasn't what he wanted either ….

But what would be the point ….

He was so tired ….

Too tired to protest ….

Already he could feel the drugs pulling him back down into the soft, warm, comforting blanket of slumber.

It was out of their hands.

Sheila Clay returned to the examination room as the two hospital orderlies were carefully lifting Hawke onto the gurney and she handed the plastic bag containing his jewellery, wallet and shoes and the holdall Dan McEwan had returned to him that morning over to Fiona, whispering as she did so:

"Can they really do this, Doc?"

Fiona merely nodded softly in answer, handed the bags over to the woman called Marella and then turned on her heel and left the examination room.

She stood silently in the corridor as the orderlies and Sheila Clay and the woman, Marella, made sure that Hawke was secured to the gurney and his IV tubes and chest drain tubes were not tangled up in each other.

She could see that the man who had identified himself as Dominic Santini had the good grace to look uncomfortable over the proceedings, throwing her apologetic looks, even as his eyes wondered back to the door leading to the examination room, waiting for his first sight of his young friend.

He did not have to wait long before the orderlies wheeled Hawke's gurney out of the examination room and the man Santini was rushing up to his side, a beaming smile on his face when Hawke greeted him sleepily.

It wasn't hard for Fiona to see the love that passed between the two men.

And she was glad.

The love of a father for his son …. And the love of a son for his father.

As the gurney drew closer to Fiona, Hawke tried to reach out his hand to her but Dominic Santini's large frame was in the way, and the orderlies were in full stride and determined to get their patient safely into the back of their ambulance, on the first leg of his journey home.

Fiona smiled weakly at Hawke.

He was with people whom he knew and cared for.

He was going back to where he belonged.

There was so much that she wanted to say to him …. So much that she wanted him to know ….

_**But it was too late ….**_

In a few seconds he was gone ….

And the man in white was holding out his hand to her.

"Thank you again for everything, Doctor Cromwell. Don't think it isn't appreciated. Your bill will be settled promptly I assure you," his handshake was cool and brief.

And with that he limped slowly out after the gurney, followed by Marella.

Leaving Fiona feeling pretty much like she had been run over by a runaway truck.

She and Sheila looked at each other in incredulity, but neither spoke. There was nothing left to say.

They heard the ambulance engine start up and then the sirens blaring as it pulled away from the clinic on its journey to Oak Valley Memorial Hospital, and then Sheila turned her back and walked back in the direction of the examination room, shoulders slumped as weariness and a sense of disappointment came over her, and she set about busying herself tidying up.

Fiona returned to her office, on legs made stiff and weak by weariness and grief, and sat down heavily at her desk burying her head in her hands, unable to prevent the hot tears from coursing down her cheeks and feeling like something fragile and beautiful and joyous had just died ….

_**Hope.**_


	10. Chapter 10

Three months later …

_**Three months later ….**_

Dominic Santini climbed out of his shiny new helicopter and let out a soft sigh as he watched his benefactor, his young friend, Stringfellow Hawke, petting his old blue tick hound, Tet.

As soon as he had been strong enough to write a check, Hawke had forced Dominic Santini to accept the money to pay for a new chopper, to replace the one he had crashed. Santini had protested, at first, reminding Hawke that he had insurance, but Hawke had insisted that he take the money.

Adamant that he _**wanted**_ Santini to have the money …. Wanted to invest in Santini Air …. Explaining that it was just a drop in the ocean from what he got for retrieving the Lady …. And that it was about time it got put to a good use.

Jokingly, he had advised Santini to use the insurance money to insure the new chopper against fire, theft, acts of God and Stringfellow Hawke.

Now, the younger man was sitting in a metal beach chair on the shore line beside the jetty, fishing line dangling in the cool crystal clear blue waters of the lake and the dog had his muzzle pushed under the arm of the chair, pressed deeply into Hawke's lap as Hawke scratched his ears and the top of his head affectionately.

The peaceful silence of the mountain lake was only disturbed by the mournful screech of a lone eagle, protesting at the arrival of the helicopter which had interrupted it's hunting, soaring high over the lake, keen eyes seeking out a trout in the choppy waters below.

Santini smiled softly to himself.

At least the young man was making some progress, having managed to get himself up and dressed, and out this far from the house under his own steam.

Hawke's right leg was out of the heavy plaster cast at long last, rigid and cumbersome it had restricted what Hawke was able to do. Including flying.

However, it had been removed a month ago, to be replaced with a much lighter cast, but unfortunately, that too had restricted his access to the helicopter.

That cast had finally been removed, only to be replaced by heavy strapping for support, although Hawke still required the metal crutches, which were lying on the ground beside the chair.

He had been out of the hospital for eight weeks now after spending the first month there lying flat on his back in traction, and he had only been back here at his cabin for the last two weeks, having spent the rest of the time in Dominic Santini's spare room, before finally persuading his doctors and physical therapists that he could cope alone.

As soon as he had been physically able to climb into the left seat of a chopper, Hawke had asked Dominic to take him home to the cabin. Dominic had complied without argument, knowing that it would just be a waste of precious breath to try to persuade the younger man to stay with him in the city.

Hawke knew that he was welcome at Dominic's home, and Santini knew that Hawke was grateful for all that he done to help him ….

But it was time for Hawke to go home.

Dominic had flown Hawke up here almost exactly two weeks ago, and had been coming up here a couple of times a week since, to take him to his physical and hydro therapy appointments and to stock up on supplies but on each occasion, the young man had refused to allow him to stay over and take care of him.

Dominic Santini could not help but worry over the younger man.

Physically, the doctors kept assuring Santini, Hawke was making a remarkable recovery, thanks in the main to the quick wits of the doctor who had initially treated him and reset the leg.

In the first few days, when he had been settled in the Firm's private hospital wing out at Knightsbridge, Hawke had spoken little about the young woman who had devoted so much of her time and her expertise to caring for him, but it had been clear to Dominic Santini that the situation had been grave.

And that her quick wits and battlefield experience had been the main factors in saving his young friend's life that awful night on the mountain.

As time had passed, Hawke had spoken less and less about Dr Fiona Cromwell, and had refused to be drawn into conversation about his feelings about that terrible night.

Something else that bothered Dominic Santini.

It wasn't good to keep something like that bottled up.

It had been too close a shave.

Too intense.

And Dominic Santini was familiar enough with the younger man to know that all was most definitely_**not**_ well with him.

For a start, Hawke was hardly eating.

Whatever supplies Santini bought up with him were still in the refrigerator and the cupboards when he came the next time …..

With the exception of coffee ….

Hawke insisted that he was getting fish out of the lake, but Santini wasn't convinced.

_**Man cannot live by coffee and fish alone …. **_

And Santini suspected that Tet was getting the lion's share of whatever trout Hawke actually managed to catch.

The younger man was also too quiet for Santini's liking.

Never much of a conversationalist, he was now positively monosyllabic, rarely saying more than yes, no, please and thanks.

He was distracted too.

Although the pained, pinched expression had now gone from his face, except on the odd occasion when he unexpectedly jarred his leg, Dominic Santini could not help thinking that Hawke looked tired all the time.

At first, because of the drugs regime in the hospital, he had slept all the time, but as they had weaned him off the sedatives and the morphine and he had gotten stronger, sleep seemed to have become more elusive.

And when he did sleep ….

His rest was violently disturbed by the dreams.

_**Nightmares.**_

Terrifying screams had brought Dominic Santini rushing from his bed in the early hours of the morning, more than once, only to find Hawke breathless and drenched in sweat, eyes wild and frantic as he struggled to grasp reality.

Muttering something about St John and Vietnam ….

But in the cold grey light of dawn Hawke had refused to be drawn about the nightmares, no matter how delicately Dominic Santini tried to broach the subject, embarrassed that his old friend should see him in such distress.

Santini suspected that the night terrors were just as bad …. Maybe worse ….

Now that he was back here, surrounded by constant reminders of his parents and St John.

Yet, Hawke refused to talk about it.

He hated to admit to any kind of weakness.

Although he ought to know by now that there was nothing in this world that could make Dominic Santini think anything less of him …. Could make Dominic Santini believe that he was weak.

Santini did not know how he was supposed to help his young friend, if Hawke would not open up and talk to him.

All Dominic could do was try to keep things as normal as possible between them, and hope that eventually, String would open up to him.

"Hey Tet," Santini greeted the old hound as he pulled his head out of Hawke's lap and bounded over toward him. "Good boy," he cuffed the dog's ears affectionately and continued to walk down the jetty. "Hey Hawke …. We should be getting a move on, don't want to be late …."

The younger man had another hospital appointment, which was what had brought Santini out here this fine morning.

Hawke would spend half an hour or so in the hospital hydro therapy pool this morning, then another half an hour or so in the gym lifting weights, and then they would take a few more X-rays of the leg to make sure that the pins were still secure and the bone around them was knitting properly.

A little under two hours at the hospital and he would be ready to be brought back to the cabin.

Santini bent stiffly to pick up the crutches from the ground and handed them to Hawke who silently manoeuvred himself to the edge of the chair, centred his body weight and then stood carefully.

"Tet …. Get out of there," Santini chided as the dog tried to weave himself around Hawke's legs. "Go dig up a bone or something," Santini took a hold of the dog's collar and dragged him away from the younger man. "I'll just go put your stuff in the chopper," he told the younger man, hurrying away with the dog, disappointed to see the dark circles under Hawke's eyes.

_**Another bad night?**_

Hawke merely nodded in acknowledgement as he made his way slowly and carefully over the uneven ground to the jetty, picking his way between rocks and shrubs gingerly so as not to jar his leg.

Hawke took his time getting into the helicopter and once he was settled and comfortable he put on mirrored flying shades and fixed his gaze straight ahead, staring out of the front window.

Dominic Santini waited to see if he would put on the earphones, so that they could communicate during the flight, but Hawke made no effort to put them on, and Santini knew that this meant that he had no desire to talk.

He waved at Hawke, indicating that he put the headset on, but Hawke stubbornly ignored him and so Dominic Santini lifted the helicopter up off the jetty and turned it around, gaining height over the lake and mountains as he headed toward Los Angeles.

While Hawke worked out in the pool and the gym, Dominic Santini waited in the coffee lounge and read magazines and drank bitter black coffee from a vending machine, and with the passing of each minute he was getting more and more irritated.

Hawke hadn't said word one to him today, just sitting there, stone faced and unapproachable, and Santini had to admit, if only to himself, he was getting pretty tired of the younger man's attitude.

When Hawke finally emerged from the physical therapy department, Santini had worked himself up and was spoiling for a fight.

Hawke knew it as soon as he saw the expression on Dominic's beloved face, and with a heavy heart, he knew that he was in for a rough ride home.

Santini waited until he was safely settled inside the helicopter, but instead of lifting off straight away, Santini sat and glowered at Hawke.

"You mad at me?" Santini demanded to know.

"No."

"Then what's with the silent treatment?" Hawke shrugged. "What the hell is bugging you? I know you've had a tough time lately, but I'm doing my best to help you, aren't I?"

"Yes …." Hawke expelled a deep sigh.

"Then what the hell is wrong with you? You hardly say a word these days, you look like hell and you walk around with a face fit to curdle milk …."

"Dom …." Hawke used his index finger to work at a small pain which had just started to throb at his temple.

"No …. I want to know what's eating at you …."

"Leave it …."

"I've left it long enough. Spill …."

"I don't know …."

"Liar …."

"Dom …. Please …. Let's just get out of here. I am so sick of the sight of this place …."

"Me too, but I'm not taking you anywhere until I get an answer …."

"Dom …."

"String …."

"Okay Dom …. You wanna know …. Well dammit, I almost _**died**_ up there on that mountain. Isn't that reason enough to be quiet and thoughtful and to take stock?"

Dominic Santini was taken aback by the raw anger and pain in Hawke's voice.

"You've had close shaves before String …. But you were never like this before," Santini pointed out. "What really happened to you up there?" He asked softly.

Stringfellow Hawke closed his eyes and the expression on his face was suddenly unreadable.

With a sudden flash of inspiration, Dominic Santini suddenly had a feeling that he knew exactly what had happened to Stringfellow Hawke.

Was it possible that along with discovering that he was mortal, just like the rest of humankind …. He had also discovered that he had a heart?

_**The lady doctor …..**_

Could it really be that simple?

Oh yeah ….

_**Oh yeah ….**_

It all suddenly began to make sense.

"Son, this isn't about you almost dying up there …. And we both know it," Santini sighed deeply, trying not to grin.

"You're not the same man that left the hangar that last day, String. You're a stranger. It's like the Stringfellow Hawke I've known all these years left a very important part of himself behind up there in Pine Valley. The most important part …. And we both know you won't find it until you go back there. Until you see _**her**_ again …."

"Her?" Hawke suddenly became guarded, his face darkening ominously.

"The pretty lady doctor, that's who …."

Stringfellow Hawke watched his old friend lose the battle to contain his smile and knew that he could deny it no longer.

He would never have believed that it was possible to miss someone as much as he missed her.

_**Fiona ….**_

Her face haunted his dreams.

Even the tortured nightmares reliving the crash, the wild stormy night, intermingled with the events leading up to St John's being left behind on that last fateful mission.

Her smile …. Those beautiful green eyes …. The very real sensation of her hand in his …. Her loving arms twined around his body ….Her warm body pressing close to his ….

He would wake up sobbing …. Desperate to return to the dream so that he could hold her once again ….

He couldn't get her out of his mind ….

Awake ….

Asleep ….

Her face haunted him.

"She was pretty cute, wasn't she?" Hawke let out a long ragged sigh at last. "I mean, I didn't dream that? Did I?" He asked Santini sheepishly.

"No son …. Nothing wrong with your eyesight …." Santini grinned. "Do you love her?" He grew serious then.

"I don't know …." Hawke sighed deeply once more. "I mean, how is _**that**_ _**possible**_ anyway, I knew her for less than twenty four hours …. But I can't get her out of my mind …."

"Is that why you've been tying yourself in knots?" Santini asked, incredulous now. "Shutting yourself away …. Hiding …. My God, String …. Only you could turn falling in love with a beautiful woman into something to be anxious and guilt ridden about …. You and your damned jinx …. _**That's **_what this is all about, isn't it?" Santini ranted.

"Take it easy Dom, don't blow a gasket …."

"I don't believe you! You're worried that if you allow yourself to care for her, you'll be signing her death warrant …."

"Look at my track record. It speaks for it's self. My love kills people." Hawke growled.

"And what the hell am I? Just your chauffeur? _**I love you**_, clown, I thought we'd established that …. And I heard from a certain someone that _**you love me**_ too. I ain't dead yet. Doesn't that tell you something about your crazy theory?"

"I might be more convinced if you wore a skirt or a dress, Dom …." String actually felt a smile tugging at his lips then.

They had had this argument so many times, but the difference this time was that he was open to the possibility that he could be wrong.

Maybe there was no jinx.

Maybe Dominic had been right all these years, and he was just luckier than those who had died.

Even St John.

Maybe he had been blessed with nine lives ….

It was just his _**good fortune**_ to survive ….

"Okay, maybe it is irrational, but I can't help feeling that way. But …. This time, it's much more practical, Dom. The timing isn't exactly wonderful." Hawke pointed out. "Just being close to me could put her in danger. You know that …."

"True …. But did you not think of telling her the score and letting her make up her own mind?" He arched an eyebrow in query. "I mean, I know I'm just a crazy old geezer, and what do I know …. But I guess she has a mind of her own …. And is capable of making rational decisions …."

"Dom, it's not that simple and you know it. You tell me how I tell her about the Lady, and what we have to do for the Firm. She's been hurt once already …. " This drew a frown from Santini now. "She lost someone special. In 'Nam. I know what that's like …. She's a strong, courageous woman, but I don't know if I could put her through something like that again …."

"Planning to turn up your toes any day now then, are ya?"

"It could happen, Dom. We have to face facts. The business we're in. It's not beyond the realms of possibility …." Hawke pointed out solemnly.

"Geez, I don't _**believe**_ you! You just walked away from a pretty nasty helicopter crash. Doesn't that tell you something? It tells me that you could just as easily be killed stepping off the sidewalk, walking in front of a car …. Bus …. Falling down the stairs …. You don't have to be on a mission in the Lady to be at risk, String. Normal every day life is enough of a risk …."

"Even so, I have enemies, Dom. Just knowing me could put her in the firing line …."

"So you decided to make the decision for her. What about the business she's in? Did you think about that? What about the risks she takes every day, exposing herself to all kinds of horrible, deadly diseases. Look at the risks she took to save you?" Santini reasoned. "Sounds to me like she's one gutsy lady …."

"She'd have to be to even think about taking me on …." Hawke sighed.

"Stop being such a pessimist, for crying out loud!"

String grew silent for a moment, thoughtful, and Santini wondered if his words were penetrating that thick, Hawke skull.

"I ask again …. Do you love her?" Santini broke the silence at last.

"I still don't know, Dom …. But …. I've never felt this way about any woman before, "Hawke confessed with considerable embarrassment.

"By all accounts, things were pretty intense between you," Santini pointed out softly. "Not that you've said that much about that night. But I guess I've got an idea what it was like, more by what you _**haven't**_ said. It's not surprising that you feel something. She did save your life, son. You wouldn't be human if you didn't feel _**something**_ …." He reasoned.

"It's more than just gratitude for saving my life, Dom," Hawke spoke quickly and with certainty then and Santini smiled. "But I don't _**know**_ how to describe it …."

"Well son, sounds like love to me," Santini grinned. "But …." He added when he saw Hawke's glower. "Whatever it is, it's serious and it needs addressing. You were never prone to being a lovelorn teenager, String, mooning over the latest nubile lovely in your high school year. That was more in St John's line …. But that's _**exactly**_ what you've been doing since you got out of the hospital," Santini's grin grew even broader. "You know there's only one thing to do, don't you …."

"I have to go back to Pine Valley," Hawke sighed resignedly. "I have to see her again. I have to know if what I feel is _**real**_. If what I saw in her eyes was real …."

"And what was that, son?"

"That she felt _**something**_ for _**me**_ too …."

"Oh," Santini could not hide his pleasure, a big toothy grin breaking out on his face. "Smart lady. I _**knew**_ I _**liked**_ her," He chuckled softly.

"Yeah. She thought you were a sweetheart," Hawke drawled, trying to suppress a lopsided grin.

"So what the hell are we still sitting here for, String? Didn't have anything else planned for the rest of the day, did you? Put your cans on …." He indicated to the headset as he reached over head for the ignition switch.

"Dom …. I don't know …."

"That's right, son. You don't. So, it's time you found out," Santini reasoned, raising his voice over the rising whine of the main rotor as it came up to full speed.

"If only you'd said something sooner, we could have saved ourselves a whole heap of trouble."

And with that, Santini pulled back on the stick and the Santini Air helicopter rose gracefully off the blacktop of the hospital parking lot and sped off.

The first part of the journey was conducted in amicable silence, requiring them to make a short detour, returning to Van Nuys and the Santini Air hangar to get supplies and fish out maps so that they could plot their course, as Dominic had not flown himself up to Pine Valley on the last occasion, Marella had been at the controls of the Firm's chopper then.

String was happy to let Dominic fuss around him, contented to sit on a hard back chair, sipping hot strong black coffee, his game leg stretched out in front of him, watching his very dear old friend pour over charts and maps and double checking co-ordinates.

When they were airborne again, the silence between them was amicable, but as they got further North, Hawke began to open up a little, finally asking Dominic if he had been out to check on the Lady, and if they required any maintenance or weaponry supplies.

Dominic reassured him that the Lady was fine and that there was plenty of time for them to schedule a routine maintenance check, because it was going to be a while yet before Hawke was going to be fit to fly a mission.

If they ever got another call, that was.

Stringfellow Hawke had let his feelings be known to Michael Coldsmith Briggs III about the way he had been removed from the clinic in Pine Valley and Dominic Santini would have paid good money to have been a fly on the wall during that exchange.

The government agent had argued that he had had a vested interest in making sure that Hawke had received the very best medical care available, but had been conspicuous in his silence, since discovering that Hawke was well and truly on the mend.

"You ever gonna let Archangel off the hook?" Santini teased and Hawke pulled a face in response. "I guess he was only doing what he thought was right …." Again Hawke pulled a sour face. "He didn't know that you couldn't have been in better hands …."

Hawke fell silent again after that and after a few minutes Dominic Santini cast a quick sideways glance towards his companion and saw that he had his eyes closed behind those mirrored shades.

He smiled softly to himself and hoped that the younger man's slumber would be more restful than of late.

Hawke wasn't really asleep.

Although it suited his purpose to have Dominic think that he was catching up on his rest.

He needed time to think.

He wasn't sure that this was the right thing to do.

Going up there.

Seeing her again.

He had been swept up in the moment, in Dominic's excitement ….

And it had felt good at the time ….

He had felt a great deal of relief at having confided in his old friend ….

Unburdened ….

As though a great weight had been lifted off his soul ….

But now ….

He couldn't help wondering if it wouldn't be better to just leave things as they were.

She would have moved on by now.

Maybe she had forgotten all about him.

Maybe he was wrong about what he thought he had seen in her eyes.

How could he _**really know**_ what she had felt …. What she had been thinking ….

Hell, he didn't _**know**_ her at all ….

_**And she didn't know him ….**_

Didn't know what a mean, moody, brooding SOB he could be sometimes.

"You okay?" Dominic Santini's voice suddenly filled his earphones and Hawke turned to give his friend an affirmative thumbs up. "You need a bathroom?" Santini asked regarding Hawke with a frown.

"No." Hawke scowled.

"Then what's with the fidgeting? You haven't been able to keep still for the last ten minutes …."

"I'm fine …."

"Like hell. You _**know**_ we're almost there, don't you? That damned sixth sense of yours …. " Santini sighed.

"Dom …. Maybe …." Hawke faltered.

"Yeah?" Santini fixed him with a knowing look, and Hawke began to wriggle again like a fish on a hook. "_**Maybe**_?" Santini prompted

"Maybe this isn't such a good idea," Hawke said softly.

"What? I can't hear ya …."

"I need time to think …."

"_**Think**_! Seems to me you do altogether too much thinking. Thinking is what generally gets a guy into trouble. Getting cold feet, that's what it is. If you started to _**feel**_ a little more. Loosen up. Relax and go with the flow …. Be spontaneous …."

Hawke raised an eyebrow sardonically over his shades at this and Santini shrugged.

"Okay …. Maybe _**that's**_ a little _**too much**_ to ask …. But …. For crying out loud, son, quit using your head and follow your heart. Just for once. Bone head …."

Hawke threw him a sour look, knowing that Dominic Santini was enjoying his discomfort far too much, and that he wasn't about to let him off the hook any time soon.

"Bone head?"

"Yeah. Bone head. You're _**scared**_!"

Again Hawke gave him a sour look.

"You really take the biscuit. Oy! You've fought in one of the most horrific wars of all time. Flown more sorties and done more tours of duty than almost any other man. You've done battle with Russian MiGs …. You've been shot up and shot at and slugged more times than I can count …. And never flinched …. But this …. _**This **_…. Finding out how you feel about this woman …. And how she feels about you …. Scares the pants off of you!"

"Dom …." Hawke growled.

"Oh no, no you don't …."

"What if I'm wrong? Maybe it would be better to just let it go …. Treasure the memories …. Because the reality might not be so pleasant …."

"Or it could be even better than you think!" Santini roared, losing patience with the younger man. "What the hell is wrong with you anyway? You're usually so damned tenacious, like Tet with an old bone, you never let go. So why are you ready to walk away from this?"

Hawke did not answer, his jaw rigid, the muscles in the side of his jaw working.

"I know it's not easy for ya. All those years of keeping your feelings to yourself. _**Denying that you even had any feelings ….**_ Denying that you are a man, just like the rest of us, with needs and drives and hopes and dreams ."

"Dom …." This time there was a definite warning in Hawke's tone of voice.

"Stow it, String. _**I know you**_, remember …. And I know that faced with the reality that you are just like the rest of us, and not a machine …. You're scared. You're scared you'll mess it up. Scared you'll do something to spoil it. Well welcome to the real world, son! Now you know how the rest of us poor mugs feel!"

Hawke let out a deep sigh and fidgeted in his seat once more, uncomfortable under Dominic Santini's knowing gaze.

_**Geez he could be so damned irritating at times ….**_

_**And so damned …. wise.**_

_**Old coot ….**_

"What if she _**is the one**_ …. And it still doesn't work out? Look at me Dom, I'm useless when it comes to romance …. Affairs of the heart …."

"Bull dust! You can charm the birds out of the tree, lunk head. You just don't know it. I've seen the Stringfellow Hawke effect in action, and let me tell you something, if you could bottle it, you'd make a fortune …." Santini rolled his eyes in exasperation, but Hawke looked unconvinced, a pained expression on his face.

"Look, nobody has all the answers, String," Santini sighed deeply. "Sometimes you just have to put your toe in the water …. And sink or swim. Oh sure, I could turn this bird around and head on home. No problem. If that's what you want. What you _**really**_ want …. But don't you think it would be better to know. For sure. Instead of torturing yourself for the rest of your life with what ifs and maybes and dreams of what might have been?"

Santini paused for a moment, deliberately, before delivering the clincher ….

"Don't you have enough what ifs and maybes and what might have beens in your life already?"

He saw Hawke flinch at this and knew that the younger man understood what he was getting at.

Dominic left the question hanging between them for several minutes and then finally broke the silence.

"What's it to be, son? Do we go on …. or do we go home?"

"Sink or swim …. Right?"

"Sink or swim …." Santini agreed, nodding sagely.

"Or drown maybe …." Hawke sighed deeply and Santini rolled his eyes in exasperation once again.

"Stringfellow Hawke, the born optimist. Don't worry, I'll be there to fish you out if you get in too deep," Santini assured.

"Dominic Santini, my faithful life preserver …." Hawke grinned.

"Did I ever let you down yet?"

"No Dom."

Hawke shook his head gently, and this time his smile was warm and filled with the genuine affection that he felt for the older man.

"So, what are you waiting for? Lets go swimming …."

"Atta boy …."

"Lunk head?" Hawke groaned. "You been watching the three stooges again? Lunk head …."

Dominic Santini threw back his head and laughed, long and loud, and Stringfellow Hawke could not help grinning back at his old friend, his mirth infectious.

However, both sobered up pretty quickly as the chopper drew closer to Pine Valley …. Flying over the mountain where Hawke had crashed that fateful night.

They couldn't actually pin point the spot where the Bell Jet Ranger had crashed because the wreckage had been removed weeks before, when the local cops and the FAA, assisted by the Firm, who had represented Hawke, had conducted an official investigation into the crash ….

Which had completely exonerated Hawke of any blame ….

But as Dominic Santini surveyed the dense forest below, it once again brought home to him just how lucky Stringfellow Hawke had been that night.

"Holy Mowley," he whistled through his teeth and was glad that it took only a matter of minutes to clear the mountain and the picturesque township of Pine Valley came into view at last.

Candy box picture perfect.

Santini looked around for somewhere to set the helicopter down and finally settled on a patch of waste ground on the edge of town, backing onto the local High School football field.

They would have a short distance to walk into town, and Santini wondered if Hawke would make it with his game leg.

Stoically, Stringfellow Hawke inched his way out of the helicopter, his body stiff now after the exercise that morning followed by hours of sitting in one position in the helicopter and carefully stretched his back and neck to work out the kinks and savoured the cool, clean mountain air, while Dominic Santini secured the chopper.

"Ready?"

"Sure …."

"You need a hand?"

"No. You go ahead. You know the way …." Hawke reminded.

"Ya think?" Santini chuckled.

The doctor's clinic was not difficult to find in a town that had only one road in and out. However the corner office was all shut up and a 'Closed' sign hung lopsidedly on the front door.

There was a tarnished brass plaque on the wall beside the door bell, announcing that it was the office of Dr F. L. Cromwell, and beneath her name a list of opening hours.

String shuffled a little closer to read it, disappointed to discover that they had missed her by a good couple of hours.

"Uh oh," Santini nudged Hawke, indicating the Police cruiser which was moving slowly down the street. "Could be we double parked the chopper …."

"Ya think?"

The officer in the cruiser eased the car to a stop at the kerb beside Santini and Hawke and rolled down his side window.

"You gentlemen looking for the Doc, you're out of luck …."

He was an older, heavy set man with greying hair and astute grey eyes, which now creased in a frown as he regarded the two strangers on the sidewalk.

"Mr Hawke, is that you?"

He opened the car door and hauled his considerable bulk out, hitching his pants up with one hand as he walked over to the two men, approaching them with his other hand outstretched.

"Well …. I'll be. It is. Well it's good to see you up and about …."

He offered Hawke his hand and pumped Hawke's hand enthusiastically.

"Dan McEwan, Chief of Police in this little berg. We met briefly, but I guess you don't remember," The officer explained, a grin splitting his wrinkled face. "You were pretty much out of it. Have to say you look a damned sight better than you did that day,"

Hawke nodded. He did not recognise the man and his name meant nothing to him, but it was clear that the police officer knew who Hawke was.

"Is that your helicopter parked out by the school?"

"Yeah," Dominic Santini answered cautiously. "Couldn't see anywhere else to set her down, Chief …."

"Thought I recognised the colours. Broke about 15 city ordnances too, Mister …."

"Santini. Dominic Santini," He offered the police officer his hand in greeting. "You gonna write us up for a ticket?"

"I should …. But as it's you, Mr Hawke. Just don't make a habit of it." McEwan grinned. "I guess you're here to see Fiona. Doc Cromwell?" Hawke nodded again and noted something soften in the other man's expression. "She's probably out on her rounds now," McEwan explained, seeming to know an awful lot about her routine.

"That girl works too damned hard, if you ask me, but she won't listen to me. Should be taking things easy 'cos she's been sick. Been in and out of the hospital a few times this past little while. Caught a chill or something up there on the mountain that night, and hasn't been able to shake it off since …. But what do I know …."

He watched, frowning, as Hawke and Santini shared concerned glances.

"If there aren't any emergencies, I guess she'll go straight home after that."

"I'd be obliged if you could point us in the right direction, Chief …."

"I can do better than that, Mr Hawke. I'll give you a ride up there. She has a cabin up the mountain. Some pretty rough terrain between here and there, and you'll never make it on foot, not on that game leg …."

"Thanks Chief. We'd appreciate that," Hawke took the officer's extended hand once more and then limped carefully after him toward the car, followed by Dominic Santini.

"Don't get any ideas," Santini whispered in Hawke's ear as he relieved him of his crutches, already knowing the direction the younger man's thoughts were heading. "There ain't no such thing as a jinx …."

"I guess she doesn't know your coming then?" Dan McEwan asked when they were all safely inside the cruiser and seat belts were fastened.

"Ah, no. It was kind of a spur of the moment decision," Hawke confessed. "I would have come sooner, but I couldn't get in the chopper because of the cast on this leg, until now. I didn't get chance to say a proper thank you …. For everything that she did for me."

"Yeah she told me about the government types and the way they came and snatched you away. Made me wonder if you were on the Most Wanted list …." McEwan smirked. "Had some dealings with _**him**_ myself while we were investigating the crash. Must say, he's a real joy to be around …."

"Yeah, that sounds like Michael …."

"Your boss?"

"No. We're freelance. But I used to work for him. Used to be a test pilot a few years back …."

"Well, he sure thinks a lot of you," McEwan commented as he steered the police cruiser down the main street and out onto the mountain road. "Your little set to didn't put you off the flying then …"

Stringfellow Hawke politely listened to the police officer's small talk as he followed the mountain road toward Fiona Cromwell's cabin and held on tightly when at last they turned off the smooth blacktop and bounced down a narrow, winding rough dirt track until at last they pulled out into a huge meadow.

Sitting in the middle of the meadow was a large rough hewn log cabin, wisps of white smoke curling gently from the stone chimney and Hawke could not help noticing how breath taking the view was.

It was almost like home.

The only thing missing was the lake.

"Doesn't look like she's home yet. Her Jeep's not here," McEwan pointed out. "Probably won't be too much longer though. That is unless there's another baby on the way," Hawke and Santini frowned at this comment. "That's how she came to be on the mountain that night. She'd just delivered the Preston baby. Been up for eighteen hours straight before she stumbled on you and the chopper," He explained. "You gonna take a chance and wait, or do you want to go back to town? There's a rocking chair on the porch. She likes to sit and watch the sun go down …."

"Well, if you're offering," Dominic Santini jumped in. "Maybe you could take me back to town and show me a place to put the chopper. Wouldn't want to break any more city ordnances. I don't suppose the doctor would mind giving Hawke a ride back to town …. later …."

"Sure thing, Mr Santini. I think I know the ideal spot …."

"Gee, thanks Dom," Hawke hissed through clenched teeth as Santini opened the door and helped him out with his crutches.

"What did you think, I was gonna hang around and hold your hand?" Santini whispered back. "Two's company," he grinned. "If you get into trouble, send up a flare …."

With that, Dominic walked back around the cruiser and got back in beside Dan McEwan.

"Listen Chief …. When you've shown me where to park the chopper, maybe you could point me in the direction of a thick, juicy steak …."

"Sure thing …. Might even join ya …."

Hawke watched Dan McEwan turn the cruiser around and head back up the winding track. He and Dominic Santini looked awfully cosy, laughing heartily as they drove away, leaving Hawke standing there watching the dust settle.

_**Stranded.**_

Oh well, there was nothing else for it ….

He made his way carefully around to the front of the cabin and eased himself down into the old fashioned rocking chair on the porch with a relieved sigh.

She had certainly chosen a beautiful place to live.

Peaceful too ….

Something tranquil and soothing about the place ….

_**And that view ….**_

Rugged snow capped mountains on the horizon, far as the eye could see, and beyond the green meadow which was dotted with pretty wild flowers, the dense, fragrant green forest.

Yeah …. Almost like home ….

_**Maybe they were more alike than they knew ….**_

Both of their lives still tainted by events from the past.

Both hiding themselves away.

Keeping themselves to themselves.

She probably couldn't give all of this up, any more than he could give up his parent's cabin by the lake.

_**So where did that leave them?**_

Well, he had wanted time to think ….

He didn't know how much time he had ….

So ….

He had better use that time wisely …. And try to decide what exactly he was going to say to her ….


	11. Chapter 11

Fiona Cromwell sighed tiredly as she followed the mountain road toward her home

Fiona Cromwell sighed tiredly as she followed the mountain road toward her home.

It had been a long day.

A good day ….

Until her last call …. When she had had to tell an elderly patient that the tests she had done a few weeks ago had come back positive for breast cancer.

The older woman had taken the news in her stride and she and Fiona had sat in her big old fashioned farmhouse kitchen, drinking coffee and talking about life and love ….

The sorrows and joys, disappointment, regrets and surprises, good and bad that made life worth living.

After leaving Alice Landry, Fiona had found a little used lay-by on the mountain road home, pulled in and cried her eyes out for the best part of half an hour, before she felt able to go on with her journey.

As she approached the last incline before the turn off to her cabin, Fiona passed a police cruiser on its way back down the mountain. The driver waved cheerfully at her and she recognised him as Dan McEwan. She also thought that the man seated beside him, grinning broadly, looked vaguely familiar ….

But she couldn't place him ….

She slowed the Jeep down, wondering if the Chief of Police would stop to pass the time of day with her.

Since that morning in her office, Dan McEwan had been nothing but friendly and polite, no more hints of any kind of romantic longings.

Relaxed and at ease in her company, and at long last, Fiona realised that they were developing the kind of friendship that she had longed for when moving to Pine Valley.

She also had him to thank for Mona Baker's turning up one day, while she had been lying helpless in the hospital, hooked up to IV antibiotics, bearing flowers and an apology.

It turned out that somehow Mona had learned about Fiona's career in Vietnam and had been angry and bitter that a slip of a girl like her had survived, when her son, Mathew, had been killed within weeks of being shipped out to that jungle hellhole.

Dan McEwan's 'little word' had finally made Mona realise just how badly she had been treating the young medic, and although Fiona suspected that the two women would never be bosom buddies, at least now the other woman respected Fiona.

However, Dan didn't slow down, just carried on down the mountain, and so Fiona shrugged absently and pointed the Jeep in the direction of home.

It looked like Dan had gotten himself a new friend.

Well good for him.

The cabin came into view at last, and she let out a long, tired sigh as she parked in her usual spot and turned off the engine.

Home at last.

Her refuge.

The view truly was spectacular.

The sky was an endless pale blue. For as far as they eye could see …. Cloudless ….

The sun still hot even this late in the day.

And the mountains …. Purple and blue and crowned with white ….

Soon they would be in shadow ….

Silhouettes ….

Standing out starkly against the riot of colour that would paint the sky at sunset.

Yellows and golds, reds and pinks and purples all merging together setting the sky on fire ….

So romantic ….

It was such a pity that she didn't have someone to share it with ….

Any of it ….

Listening to Alice Landry talk about her life this afternoon …. The men she had loved …. The babies she had raised …. And the ones she had lost …. The good times and the bad …. had been just a little too painful ….

Reminding Fiona of all the things she had missed out on ….

_**Turned her back on ….**_

_**Allowed to pass her by ….**_

_**Hitting just a little too close to home ….**_

And now it was too late ….

_**Such a waste ….**_

Her life was what she had made of it …. Because of the choices she had made.

No point in regretting those choices now.

Just because of a chance encounter with a stranger.

She ran her fingers through her hair absently and allowed her fingers to rub gently at her temples where a headache was just beginning to make its self felt.

She'd feel a whole lot better after a cup of hot coffee and something to eat.

_**And a good night's sleep ….**_ A little voice nagged at the back of her mind.

_**Little hope of that!**_

Aspirin first.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the rear view mirror …. And pulled a face.

She looked like hell ….

_**Again ….**_

Blue smudges beneath her red rimmed eyes, testimony to the sleepless nights she had been having lately.

Her peaceful nights at first disturbed by the hacking cough and chest pains that she hadn't been able to shake off after catching cold that night out on the mountain.

A chest infection that persisted, despite several courses of oral antibiotics and at least two spells in Oak Valley Memorial Hospital for IV antibiotics in the last three months.

Her colleague at the hospital had threatened to keep her in longer than a week the last time, if she did not promise to take things easy and take her meds and take better care of herself.

He knew she wasn't eating.

Sleeping.

He had also warned her that if she didn't do as she was told, she was heading for full blown asthma.

Something they both knew could be very serious and in such a remote location, possibly even fatal.

That had sobered Fiona enough for her to take a couple of weeks off from her duties at the clinic and she had stayed at the cabin, forcing herself to eat chicken soup, to sleep late in the mornings and retire early at night, and the remainder of the time she had spent going for invigorating walks, filling her ailing lungs with the cool, pure mountain air.

But then ….

She had grown restless and had returned to work, desperate for something to fill her time, and take her mind off other, unwanted, unsettling thoughts.

And then ….

Her sleep had been disturbed by the most vivid of dreams ….

In glorious Technicolour and Stereophonic sound no less ….

Both terrifying ….

And ….

To her eternal embarrassment ….

_**Incredibly erotic ….**_

Asleep and awake she was being haunted ….

By Stringfellow Hawke ….

His wonderful, handsome face popping into her mind when she least expected it ….

Catching her unawares ….

_**It had to stop ….**_

She couldn't go on making a fool of herself over a man who didn't even know that she existed.

She was tired.

And a little depressed over Alice Landry ….

That was all.

It was always tough having to break sad news like that.

It would all look different tomorrow.

_**A new day ….**_

_**Full of new possibilities ….**_

She pulled herself together and got out of the Jeep, grabbing her medical bag from off the back seat, and then after locking the Jeep, began to walk toward the cabin.

Home sweet home ….

As she came around the corner, Fiona suddenly became aware of movement, that there was someone standing on her front porch …. And she came to an abrupt halt, dropping the medical bag on the ground beside her.

At first she thought she was imagining things.

After all, she had just been thinking about him.

Now her mind was conveniently conjuring him up.

_**She must be going mad ….**_

"Hello Fee," he stepped out of the shadows and away from the porch now and she got a better look at him.

_**Lord …. but he was a wonderful sight for sore eyes.**_

_**And he was real. Not an apparition.**_

_**She wasn't losing her grip on reality after all …. **_

_**She wasn't going mad ….**_

_**Oh God ….**_

_**He looked so good ….**_

_**Just as beautiful as she remembered ….**_

"Hawke?"

"I didn't mean to startle you," he used the crutches to swing himself forward now, closing the gap between them.

"What are you doing here?" She stammered, willing herself to move toward him, but finding that her legs were paralysed.

He came to a stop before her, a little breathless from the effort of using the crutches.

And then he smiled and Fiona thought her heart was going to burst.

He looked good.

Well.

Better than the last time she had seen him …. And then she looked at him with the experienced eyes of a doctor, and knew that all was not as well as she had first thought.

He looked tired.

_**Still plagued by the nightmares ….**_ She couldn't help wondering ….

Well …. She knew what _**that **_was like.

He looked thinner too.

_**So, he wasn't eating either ….**_

"How are you?"

"Good. Thanks to you …."

His voice was deeper than she recalled, low and very sexy, his deep baby blue eyes raking over her, taking in her pale, tired face and slender frame.

"And you? Chief McEwan said you'd been sick …."

_**Gee, thanks Dan ….**_

_**Was that concern she saw in his eyes now?**_

"It's nothing," she brushed it off quickly.

The look he gave her told her that he wasn't buying it …. Telling her that he knew the truth.

"The Chief said you'd been in the hospital …."

"A head cold and a persistent chest infection that took a while to clear up," she explained quickly. "But I'm fine now …." She assured. "So …. What brings you here?"

Quickly changing the subject.

Too quickly …. Or so Hawke thought.

"Don't you know?" He regarded her with steady, piercing blue eyes, his voice low, throbbing intensely, hypnotising her.

"_**You ….**_"__

He said simply, closing the small distance between them with one last step then released the crutch he had been holding in his right hand, letting it fall to the ground as he reached out to touch her cheek very lightly.

"_**You**_ are what brings me here, Fiona," he told her earnestly. "I can't get you out of my mind," He added softly. "I thought I had dreamed you,"

He smiled again, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of her cheek, moving so that his big, calloused, work roughened hand could cup her face and his thumb could caress her soft cheek.

"I thought I would go mad if I didn't see you again …."

"Oh String …." She gasped, feeling her cheek burn where his hand touched her and tears suddenly sting in her eyes.

"You'll probably think I'm crazy, Fee …. But …. I love you …." He told her on a long, ragged, anguished sigh, the hand cupping her face drawing her closer to him, so that he could lean down and press his lips tenderly to hers.

When he drew away from her a moment later, tears were running freely down her face and she was blushing very beautifully ….

And smiling.

He used his thumb to gently wipe a tear from her cheek.

"I don't know how …. When …. Why …. I just know I _**do **_…. _**I love you**_ …."

There were tears shimmering in his deep blue eyes now too, making them even more blue.

"And I don't know what that means. For either of us …." He confessed in a ragged voice.

"If you're crazy …. It must be catching …." She sobbed and giggled at the same time and he regarded her with puzzlement.

"_**I love you too**_ …." She confessed, reaching out with shaking fingers to push a stray lock of his wonderfully fine, baby soft, rich honey coloured hair away from his brow, finding soft, delicate new pink skin, scar tissue, from the head wound she had stitched for him all those weeks ago.

"I thought I'd never see you again …." More tears rolled unhindered down her cheeks. "Poor baby," she stretched up on tip toe and pressed her lips to the tender new flesh.

"I love you …." She said again. "All I wanted was a chance to tell you. It doesn't matter what happens next. I couldn't …. didn't dare …. think about that. Couldn't believe …. Didn't dare hope …. that you might feel the same way about me. I just hoped that one day I would get a chance to let you know. I needed you to know …."

"Me too …." He confessed.

"I believed that you _**needed**_ to know …." She sighed softly. "It seemed important somehow …. That you know that someone, somewhere cared for you …. Loved you …."

He nodded gently in understanding.

"Hold me …." Fiona said suddenly, in a soft voice, a shy yet wicked smile curving at her lips, a shiver running down her spine in anticipation of the moment when he would take her into his arms for the first time, and she would feel his strong, loving arms around her.

"Are you propositioning me, Major?" He threw her a lopsided grin.

"Cashing in that rain check. You owe me. Remember?" She smiled shyly again, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively and he couldn't help grinning down at her.

Hawke didn't need to be asked twice.

Dropping the other crutch, he pulled her into his arms, holding her as tightly as he dared, savouring the wonderful warmth of her body against his own as she snuggled against his shoulder, her arms twining around his waist, turning her face toward him to press soft warm kisses through the thin fabric of his shirt ….

The taut column of his neck ….

"Ribs all healed?" She gently squeezed her arms around his middle.

"Mmmmm" Was all he could say in response to her question, desperately wanting to feel the warmth of those lips against his naked flesh instead of through his shirt.

"And your leg?"

"It's good. Better than good. The doctors in LA tell me that you did a terrific job. That I was damned lucky not to loose it. That I was damned lucky, period. I'll never be able to thank you enough for that," he told her in a voice made rough by emotion. "For saving my life. I owe you so much …."

"You don't owe me a thing, Stringfellow Hawke, but you're welcome." She whispered softly into the thin fabric of his shirt.

"Fee …." He spoke at last, hating to break the spell, but there were things that still needed to be said.

"Mmmm?" She lifted her head slightly to gaze lovingly up into his face and it was almost his undoing.

"I don't know what …. If any …. Future we might have …. Together …. But there are things that you need to know …."

"I love you and you love me. That's all I really need to know," she rested her cheek against his chest now and heard the steady, rhythmical pounding of his heart. "The rest will take care of its self …."

"Fee, I'm serious. There are things I have done …. Things I might be called upon to do again in the future …. That you should know …."

"I don't care."

She drew away from him a little then, but not out of the circle of his embrace, and looked up in to his beloved face, which was wearing an expression of such consternation and worry.

"But …." He began to protest.

"You could be an axe murderer for all I care," she slipped her arms from around his waist and reached up with both hands to cup his face. "I love you. I didn't think that I would ever love anyone again. I'm not going to let this chance slip away. Whatever it is, String. I'll deal with it. I'll learn to live with it. Its part of you, what makes you the man you are …. The man I love, so it can't be that bad," she reasoned and he could see in her eyes that she meant it.

"I'm not an axe murderer …." He smiled softly down at her. "But I have had to do some things I'm not proud of …."

"You were a Soldier. You had to do what you had to do, to stay alive. I understand that," she sighed softly. "And if you are still having to do what needs to be done to stay alive, I understand that too, String. I understand that you are very important to our government. Whatever it is you do for them …. I know that they value you a great deal. I learned that lesson when your friend in white railroaded me. When he waltzed in and took over my clinic. Whatever it is you do, I don't want to know. I already know what I need to know. I know that you must have your reasons, very good reasons for doing it. I think it must have something to do with your brother. I can't …. _**Won't**_ ask you to give it up. I don't have that right," she let out a soft sigh as she rested her cheek back against his shoulder.

"Fee …. What I do could put _**you **_in a great deal of danger too …." He confessed. "A lot of innocent people have already died because of me …."

Fiona lifted her head to look up at him, surprised by the look she found on his face.

_**Self revulsion ….**_

_**Guilt ….**_

"Is that what you meant when you said you were jinxed? " She asked gently and he nodded.

"Hell, I've already put your life in danger, " his voice was very low and throbbing with emotion. "You've been sicker than you told me …."

Fiona pulled away from him, reluctantly, as she felt his body shudder against her own, and looked up into his worried blue eyes, suddenly wondering what it was he saw when he looked at her.

Did he think that she had some terrible terminal illness? That she had somehow developed something life threatening, by virtue of the fact that she had involved herself in saving his life?

_**He believed what he was saying.**_

She could see it so clearly in his beloved face.

_**He really believed it.**_

_**And she knew that she had to be honest with him.**_

"String, I'm fine," she assured him. "I had a chest infection that wouldn't clear up …. And so I had to go into hospital a couple of times for IV antibiotics, but my life was never really in any danger …. And if you think I'm going to let you try to take the blame for something that was no-one's fault, except my own then you're crazier than I thought," She regarded him with a steady green gaze now.

"I get sick, just like everyone else, String. I have a good immune system, normally, but, sometimes …. "

"But you look so …. Sick …." He gulped.

"You don't look so great yourself, hot shot!" She shot back. "Gee, you know you are really gonna have to work on a new line of compliments …." She chuckled. "I still haven't forgotten that you threw up over me, and then told me I looked like hell!" She grinned, but he refused to smile, still looking lost and anguished.

"Sometimes, I don't take care of myself. Well, not as well as I should. I get down …. Depressed, and I don't eat enough. Sound familiar?"

She confessed and nudged him gently in the ribs, mindful that he might still be sore from where she had had to insert the chest drain.

"And recently, I haven't been sleeping very well …. How the hell could I sleep, when all I could think about was _**you! …. When every time I closed my eyes …. all I could see was your precious face**_!"

He finally lowered his gaze, a sheepish expression crossing his face then, and she knew that he understood exactly what she was saying, because he had been there too.

"But you could still have gotten hurt crawling around that mangled wreck trying to save me …."

"Sure, and I could have tripped off the kerb the next day and fallen under a bus …." She rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Life is full of risks …. Some acceptable …. Some that we chose, because if we don't take a risk now and again, good things pass us by. Strangers never get a chance to become friends …. And people could die unnecessarily …." she reasoned, but she could tell from his anguished expression that he wasn't buying it.

"What I did, I chose to do. I have no regrets, String. I did what I had to do, and it has brought me nothing but …."

"Misery …" He cut in.

"Oh dammit, will you stop with the negative attitude!" She snapped then, losing patience with him."It has brought me nothing but heartache and despair ….. and _**joy **_and _**elation**_ and …. _**And more happiness than I ever hoped to feel again**_ …." Her voice suddenly trailed away.

He still wasn't buying it.

He was determined to take the blame on his shoulders.

"Almost everyone I have ever cared for has died …." He let out a ragged breath and she could see that he was in a great deal of pain and torment over it.

"So tell me," she invited in a soft voice then, knowing that to understand him better, she also had to understand the things that tormented him.

This was an old pain, rooted too deeply. No amount of reasoning was going to change his perspective.

"Help me to understand …."

"My parents …."

He let out a long, ragged sigh, and it was easy to see the pain etched into his beloved face.

"They drowned in a boating accident when I was a kid …. I was with them, _**I **_should have died too, but somehow, I survived. Before I went to Nam," he raced on without taking a breath. "I was dating a very lovely girl …. There was a car crash. I was driving. I walked away with barely a scratch …. _**She died**_ …. And then there was St John. My brother. We were together on that last mission in 'Nam. He should have gotten out too, but I got wounded and somehow …. In all the confusion, he got left behind …."

He paused for a moment then, realising that he was bordering on the hysterical, trying to reign in his emotions before they snowballed out of control.

"And then, not so very long ago, just when I thought I had hardened myself to caring about anyone …. I met a girl. Gabrielle. She was smart and beautiful and funny and courageous. Somehow she managed to get through my defences …. And I started to care for her. She promised me that this time it would be different. That she wouldn't leave me …. But then …. She was murdered …." He concluded on a sob and gulped in air then to replenish his burning lungs.

Fiona gently began to rub her hand soothingly up and down his back, regarding him with a steady gaze, without revulsion or fear.

And he realised that she wasn't judging him.

She wanted to understand him.

_**Because she loved him.**_

"And you think that you are a jinx because you cared for all of these people? Because you loved them …. and they died?"

He was amazed at her perception.

She really was an exceptional woman.

"You feel bad because they died and you survived," he nodded. "Oh String, what you're feeling is normal, and very understandable …. And my colleagues and I in the medical profession are coming across this more and more, especially since Nam," she explained gently. "It has a name, String …. It's called Survivors guilt. And what it tells me about you, is that you are a caring, sensitive human being, " her big green eyes implored him to believe her, to trust her ….

As he had done once before.

"It doesn't change the fact that it just _**keeps**_ happening. Every woman who ever got close to me …. Every woman I ever loved …. _**Died**_ …. My love could get _**you**_ killed …."

His eyes welled with huge tears, and the anguish in his voice tore at Fiona's heart.

_**Was there any way to get through to him?**_

To make him realise that he wasn't responsible for the deaths of all the people that he had loved?

That he had been truly unfortunate to experience so much grief in his young life …. But that none of it had been his fault. None of it had been because of him.

"But _**you**_ didn't _**kill**_ them, String …." She reasoned gently, still rubbing his back, now in slow, soothing, circular movements. "I don't believe that you can _**kill**_ someone just by loving them …." She assured him. "Not by love alone. Other things, _**destructive things**_ caused by loving someone too much. Things like jealousy or obsession or madness. They can kill. But not simply _**caring**_ for another human being. Like _**I**_ care for you …. And _**you**_ care for me …."

She looked up into his beloved face with steady green eyes and kept her voice low and soft and even.

"String, you can't go on making yourself responsible for the deaths of the people you have loved. Your _**love**_ didn't kill them …. And if I know anything about you …. Them …. then I believe that they would all have been honoured …. Blessed …. To know that you loved them, that you touched there lives. I know I do."

She paused briefly for a moment, wanting to be sure that she had not lost his attention.

"People die, String …. All the time, for whatever reasons …. The secret is living each day to the fullest and loving people with all your heart, every day, and not being afraid to show it …. Say it ….. _**Feel it**_ …. So that they know that they are loved and cherished …. And savouring the precious memories that come along with loving someone and being loved in return …."

"You have to know that if we are to have any kind of a future together. There is real danger in being involved with me …." He insisted.

"Okay. So now you've told me. Now I know. Does it make any difference? _**Hell no**_!" She told him defiantly. "But, while we're laying it all on the line, bearing our souls, you should know that there is a real danger in being involved with me too, String. I'm a doctor. Every day I come into contact with all kinds of sickness. Some things that we know how to deal with. And lots more that we don't. New viruses. Nasty things that we don't have a clue about …. Old enemies we thought we had eradicated," She pointed out softly, reaching up with her thumbs now to gently stroke away the tears that had slipped down on to his rugged cheeks.

"And then there are times I am called upon to do things that most sane people wouldn't dream about," she smiled softly.

"People do stupid things. They get themselves into all kinds of trouble, and when they get hurt, I have to do what I can to help them, regardless of the risks and dangers to myself. You learned that first hand, that night on the mountain," she reminded him in a soft voice. "Does that make a difference to how you feel about me?"

"No …." His piecing blue eyes bore into her and his arms tightened around her waist.

"Can you accept that? Can you live with that? It's what I do. It's what I _**choose**_ to do. It's a big part of who I am. What makes me, _**me**_ …."

"Of course I can …."

"You have to know, love, that I would always do all that I could to protect you, to make sure that those things didn't harm you," she cupped his beloved face and regarded him with a steady gaze.

"And I know that you will do everything you possibly can to make sure that I am safe. Protected. Because that's the kind of man you are," she stroked his cheeks lovingly with her thumbs once more and smiled reassuringly up at him, then stretched up to press her lips briefly against his.

"No more regrets. No recriminations. You have to learn to forgive yourself for surviving when those you loved didn't. You have to learn to believe that you have every right to the happiness that so much of the world takes for granted. The past has helped to make us the people that we are, String, but it doesn't have to spoil the future for us. We can both move beyond those demons …." She assured him softly.

"Fee …. "

He let out a long, ragged sigh, and she could see that he was trying hard to come to terms with what she had said and the way that he had felt for so many years …. And she could not help wondering if he would ever be able to reconcile the two.

"I love you …. " He let out a soft groan.

"Say that again …." She grinned up at him.

"Why?" He frowned, his mind still in turmoil, unable to understand why she refused to understand the seriousness of what he was trying to get across to her.

"Because it has to be at least ten seconds since you said it last …. Dope …. Because I like to hear you say it …. In fact, I don't think I'll ever get enough of hearing you say it …."

"I love you …. But …. you should know that I'm not the easiest man to get close to," he confessed hoarsely "I'm not the easiest man to be around. I brood …." He let out a long ragged sigh then. "I'm moody …."

"You don't say!" She chuckled, recalling the way his mood had changed when she had asked him about who St John was.

"I don't find it easy to open up. To let people in. Even Dominic …. And he's been there for me all my life. It drives him crazy …."

"Is that so?"

"Uh huh …."

"You're not doing such a bad job right now, my love," she smiled enigmatically and continued to caress his cheeks with gentle fingers.

"But, I do understand what you mean. I get that way myself sometimes," she confessed once more. "Lost in the past …. Turning the guilt and blame in on myself …."

Hawke nodded in understanding.

"Nobody said it would be easy, love. It could make life very …. _**Interesting**_ …. But we have similar experiences …. We've seen some of the same horrors …. Been touched by the same evil …. And we each have an idea of what the other is thinking …. Feeling …. I'm not the easiest person to live with either. That's why I live alone …. But …." She suddenly decided that they had gotten way too serious and it was time to lighten the mood.

"_**The times they are a changing**_ …."

She sang the Bob Dylan lyric tunelessly and grinned at the pained expression that suddenly crossed his handsome face.

"If you can live with _**that**_, I'll live with your moodiness!" She chuckled happily.

"That could be a tall order …." Hawke hissed through his teeth. "I'm known as something of a music lover. I even play the cello …."

"Oh no …." She groaned. "Then I guess _**we're**_ _**doomed**_, Charlie Brown …."

She caressed his rugged cheeks with her thumbs once more, revelling in the sensation of drowning in his deep blue eyes.

"There is no such thing as a jinx, Stringfellow Hawke. But, if you are going to try to find excuses for any relationship between us _**not **_to work, at least make them believable. Like, I'm way too old for you …."

"Not true," he protested, bowing his head carefully and touching his lips to hers. "How old are you, anyway?" He growled throatily against her lips.

"Don't you know that you should never ask a lady her age?"

"You started it …."

"As old as my tongue and a little bit older than my teeth …."

"Cute. Anything else?"

"You live in LA and I live here …."

"We could always move to Phoenix …." He pressed his lips lightly to hers once more. "And?" He coaxed.

"You love to fly. You were born to soar above the clouds …. But I hate to fly," she confessed, trying to smother a smile and to hide the delicious shiver that was dancing up and down her spine with every touch of his lips to her own.

"Really? He gazed down at her earnestly and she thought that she would drown in those deep blue eyes.

"Mmmm …. Makes my teeth ache," she chuckled delightfully.

"Then have them all out …." He growled and planted his lips firmly against hers. "Now shut up, and kiss me …."

"Is that an order?" She asked against his lips.

"What do you think …."

"Ah shoot,"

She sighed softly, surrendering herself to the wonderful exploration of his mouth against her own.

"I love you, Stringfellow Hawke, and _**that**_ is all that matters," she said at last when they parted, breathless and flushed and grinning like idiots, String holding on to her tightly so that he could keep his balance.

"_**Really**_. It's _**all**_ that matters. Let's not make any rash promises. From this moment on there are no expectations. A clean slate. For both of us. Please don't put obstacles up in our way before we've even had a chance to make a start," she advised sagely now.

She gently guided his face down towards her own once more and kissed him with such passion and affection, urgency and tenderness that Stringfellow Hawke thought that his heart would burst with love and pride.

He gathered her closer, twining his fingers in her silky soft hair as he kissed her until she was breathless ….

And then he kissed her some more ….

And then some more ….

Unable to get enough of her ….

The taste of her lips ….

The warmth of her body against his own ….

Lost ….

Revelling in the sensation of not knowing where he ended and she began ….

He had waited such a long time for this moment.

He wasn't going to waste a precious second of it.

And in this respect, he had found an equal in Fiona Cromwell, as she clung to him and kissed him with equal need and joy and passion.

She was right.

He didn't need to complicate things before they had even begun.

Life was complicated enough.

But maybe …. Just maybe ….

_**Together …. **_

They would be strong enough to face whatever came their way …. Overcome whatever obstacles life threw at them ….

With love ….

And faith ….

And trust in each other.

He didn't know what the future held ….

For any of them ….

But it suddenly became very clear to him that all he should really care about was the present.

The here and now.

And with Fiona at his side, Stringfellow Hawke knew that he could learn to live each new day …. With all its risks and complications …. And joys ….

As it came ….

And to let all their tomorrows take care of themselves ….


End file.
